


Bonpensiero Bloodlines Remix

by MissingTriforce



Series: A Kinder Universe [6]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game), World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fusion, Angst, Behind the Scenes, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Malkavian Madness, Mental Health Issues, Polyamory, Stealth Crossover, Vampire Politics, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: After decades away, Beckett is invited to Los Angeles, by a formal, crisp letter from Prince Sebastian LaCroix and his Seneschal Enzo Bonpensiero. They want him to examine this Anarkaran sarcophagus that has the global Kindred community both terrified and enthralled. Beckett's as eager to debunk Gehenna rumblings as he is to re-visit old contacts and investigate new lines of Thin-Blooded inquiry. And maybe, even, go romancing.
Relationships: Beckett (Vampire: The Masquerade)/Mercurio (Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines), Beckett/Original Malkavian Character(s) (Vampire: The Masquerade)
Series: A Kinder Universe [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645372
Comments: 46
Kudos: 22





	1. Harbinger

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, this IS a rewrite of VTMB with my friends' OCs put into it, as a treat.
> 
> Please note that, since I'm an LA area native, the location descriptions may be different from the game.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Kine shuffled thin on the dance floor on a Tuesday night, and absolutely no Kindred chatted in the booths of Haven, not even in the reserved party room for them. But that was fine. With things the way they were…it was best to stay home.

The way things were—the way warning pressed against her chest and knocked against her rib bones. The sound drew closer, louder, and then would fade again, like an ancient breath wheezing into her ear, or a foreign heart puttering out beat after slow beat.

Cassandra shivered and returned to the paperwork spread out on the booth table before her. Sergio stayed in bed, and Zelde tinkered with some odd tech gizmo in her workshop. The adorable square was supposed to automatically hack the FBI or something fanciful like that. Cassandra was meant to be going over Haven’s ledger, combing over income and expenses and writing twiddling ideas about how to increase the former, but this dread, this pressure in the air—it distracted. She could almost taste the feeling—the scent of cedar and patchouli blowing on the wind and making the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“We must continue on like we’re going to continue on,” she said aloud. “The ordinary run of life.”

As she bent her head to work, a cold spark caressed her cheek. She didn’t move or start. The tingling against her cheek could mean many things, but as she looked up her heart wanted to expand three times its normal size. A green mist slowly swirled itself into a column on the dance floor.

“Beckett!” she cried and ran toward him. As his arms gained form, they caught and spun her around. His laughter brought happiness into the room like a light, and she had no sooner placed hands on his new shoulders and noted the crinkled smile reached his red eyes than they were kissing.

 _Fill our mouths with cinnamon now_ went the song, or the song would go. She framed his sharp cheekbones with her trembling hands and devoured as much as she could. Racing up and down her spine the knowledge went—your lover is here; a piece of you has returned; his steady strength, his leather-clad warmth, his smoky smell all over and present.

Beckett, for his part, snuck his hands down her waist to fondle her ass. He nipped her lips and breathed her name with a grin.

Cassandra stroked her fingers through his hair, and his sunglasses lifted to rest on his forehead. “My darling,” she said, and the pressure to cry built behind her eyes. “You’ve come to witness the end of all things.”

“On the contrary, your father invited me to prove that this isn’t Gehenna,” Beckett said, sneaking another kiss. His deep voice sent more light through the shadowy corners of her, more assurance of his solidity. “I’m on my way to present myself now. I thought I’d stop by here first, for old time’s sake.”

Despite everything, Cassandra chuckled. “Shall I get on a table and threaten to stake you?” Her thumbs swiped across his soft cheek. “Or perhaps you’d like to tell me all the old stories again, or listen to my ancestor’s wax tube recording until dawn?”

Beckett arched a brow. “It doesn’t require possession of much wit to think of far better things we could do on a table.” He squeezed her ass to answer what those things were.

Cassandra took the opportunity to detangle his sunglasses from his hair and tuck them in her collar. It was all a tease. “Hmm, and be late for your appointment with my father?”

Beckett rolled his eyes, groaned, and buried his face in neck. “I missed you,” he said. A pause and then: “Have you changed your perfume?”

“No—why?”

“You smell like peaches.”

“Mm, that would be my partner from earlier. She explained that she liked to be reminded of summer.”

Beckett huffed, and Cassandra couldn’t mistake the brief blade of a fang pressed to her neck before it disappeared. “It’s always summer in Los Angeles,” he groused as he straightened. “I fail to see how it’s possible to miss it.”

“There are seasonal changes—they’re just very subtle,” Cassandra insisted. She placed her hands on his chest and breathed again. “In all seriousness, I’m glad you’re here.”

“A Noddist refusing a Princely invitation to examine a priceless historical artifact and prove Gehenna believers a pack of fools? Unheard of. How could I resist?” Beckett smirked.

Slow, breath by breath, Cassandra traced the line of his thick eyebrows, the round edge of his eye socket, and the sharp bridge of his nose. Those vermillion eyes fluttered closed, and a tension left Beckett’s body, something in the set of his shoulders. Yet his claws tightened against her. “And this.”

“A-and that,” he stuttered. “As if you don’t already know.”

She unfocused her vision so she could hone in on the physicality of him, of his broad, pale brow, the thinness of his cheek, the solid line of his jaw, the bluntness of his chin, the slight cupid’s bow of his lips. She took his features in not with her eyes, but with the delicate, intimate pad of a finger. “Something strange happened the other night.”

“Hgrh?” Some inner equilibrium seemed to be greatly upset by her perusal.

“Prince LaCroix—the younger one, you remember. Well, you haven’t met him, but you remember when we got the news that the Anarchs killed Divia and Lucien LaCroix and took over the city. The attack was spear-headed by Mama Lion herself, along with Jeremy McNeil, Smiling Jack, and my niece Anna. Dad has been pouting for years, muttering he will get us under the Camarilla banner once more, and he seized the chance with this Sebastian LaCroix, who claims to be a distant French relation to Lucien.”

“Cassandra, get on with it,” said Beckett rather sharply. Oh, she was touching him bare, wasn’t she? The evidence of it was beginning to harden and press against her thigh.

She spoke faster. “Anyway, Sebastian called everyone—and I mean, _everyone_ —all us Bonpensieros, all the Elders, all the Primogen, lieutenants, and Barons—to the Egyptian Theater to see him execute this odd duck of a Kindred who only blew in last month. A self-hating religious fanatic. They’d sired a childe without permission, and the Nagloper Sheriff decapitated them. We all thought the childe would meet the same fate, but then Nines interrupted and the Prince spared them.”

“A sniveling, rose-cheeked Princeling spared a fledging in the middle of a wank display of his dominance over society?” Beckett said. “And Enzo allowed it?”

“Well, he is only Seneschal. He can’t outright defy Sebastian.” Cassandra shrugged.

Beckett squeezed his eyes shut, buried his face against her neck again, and growled. “Cassandra, you really must stop touching me or I will lose this battle with my Beast.”

Cassandra’s fingers flew to his belt, untucked his shirt, pressed into the revealed naked skin of his soft belly, and curled into the thick hairs there. She drew on her blood and pushed the frisson of feeling through, like dam water overflowing its walls. “Aren’t you jealous, from earlier? Show me.”

The resultant growl was deeper than the last. Before Cassandra could respond, the rushing wind of Celerity and the bull rush of Beckett’s body slammed her against the wall with a satisfying thud. She gasped, and Beckett caught the sound with his teeth.

“Make me smell like you again,” Cassandra tempted between bites. “I missed it—I missed you.”

Beckett planted his fists on either side to trap her in, and he slid his body against hers. He maneuvered his knee between her legs, stoking liquid fire, and his voice barely made it above a rumble. “It’s been three months.”

As if Cassandra hadn’t been counting—as if she wasn’t always following the moon and her cycles. Her hands shook before, but now they were steady as she unzipped her dress and unhooked her bra. Beckett moved his leg, so she could strip to nakedness. Her clothing fell, and Beckett’s dark slit pupils widened. He licked his lips, and a certain knowledge settled in her veins—if he asked to eat her alive, she would consent.

She made for his belt, but she unbuckled and unbuttoned and otherwise unwrapped him while he latched onto different patches of skin and needled and bruised as best as he could. Warmth and the comfort that entailed unfurled in her. When his teeth finally pierced her flesh and his cock thrust in deep, all she could think was _safe, safe, safe, they were safe for now_.

#

When they finally made their way to Ventrue Tower, Beckett had the distinct pleasure of seeing a flash of exasperated disgust on Don Enzo’s usually stoic face. One hardly needed enhanced senses to smell his “low clan” Gangrel scent on Cassandra, or employ Auspex to note the aura of blood bond between them. No, no, Enzo could find excuse to look down his patrician nose by simply noting the disheveled state of their hair and clothes.

“Good evening, Daddy,” Cassandra said, pleased smile false in its sweetness. “How are you doing?”

“Daughter.” He tipped his head in acknowledgement before nodding at Beckett. “Always good to see you again, Mr. Beckett.”

Beckett grinned. “Of course. My sire and clan remain the same, so I assume my credentials are sufficient for you to announce me to your new Prince?”

Enzo nodded again with obvious stiffness, and they followed him through ornate French doors to a ridiculous and deeply French audience chamber. Beckett had previously noted that Kindred latched onto the fashion at the time of their Embrace and never advanced, and the evidence was in abundance here. If anything could be lined with gold, it was, and the firelight danced on the cream paneled walls and oil paintings depicting Caine inventing murder or aristocrats. At a desk longer than he was tall, a petite blonde man sat among piles of papers, almost dwarfed by his velvet winged chair and definitely dwarfed by the man behind him. The small one must be Ventrue. Embraced as the French Revolution came to its end. The giant must be the Sheriff and Laibon.

“My Prince, do you have a moment?” Enzo said, in a great flourishing gesture.

The blonde looked up. He had the face of a pouting angel. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

“May I present to you Mr. Cuthbert Beckett, the Autarkis Noddist and childe of Aristotle de Laurent of the Mnemosyne. He received your invitation and has come to study the sarcophagus from Ankara.” Enzo bowed and discreetly backed away. Seneschal and Herald all in one, it would seem.

“Ah, yes! Beckett!” the Prince rose, walked around the desk, and spread his arms. “Welcome to Los Angeles, though I am given to understand it is not your first time here. Thank you for coming.”

“You sent an offer I could hardly refuse,” Beckett replied smoothly. This one was playing The Game all right. Beckett put his hands in his pockets to signal that any attempt at hand shaking would be futile.

At least LaCroix was good at social cues. He stood before Beckett like a prim and proper solider boy and did not touch him. “The sarcophagus recently arrived on the _Elizabeth Dane_ from Turkey. My agents are monitoring the situation as we speak—unfortunately, it’s too risky to steal at present. The _Dane_ ’s arrival is a high publicity item, and we must balance the Masquerade with the sarcophagus’s safe retrieval. Once the hubbub dies down, my agents will steal the sarcophagus from its intended kine destination, a Museum of Natural History. I’ll have rooms arranged for you here at the Tower while we wait.”

He spoke rapidly, as people tend to do when they’re used to speaking French. Beckett sighed. Of course there was a delay.

Cassandra’s gentle hand found his shoulder, and Beckett resisted the urge to lean back into her softness. “Beckett has already asked to stay with me.”

LaCroix arched a brow. “With an Anarch? There’s no need. He’ll find the Ventrue Tower rooms much more comfortable.”

“We’re all one under the Camarilla, are we not?” Beckett smirked. “And I don’t know who you have been talking to, but Cassandra is as much an Independent Memory-Seeker as I am.”

LaCroix glared like a child denied a candy. “I shall call on you at Haven, when the time comes. Until then.”

“Until then.” Beckett gave a mock bow, and Cassandra stifled a giggle.

No matter, because LaCroix had turned around, the Sheriff had a small smile on his face, and Enzo had rolled his eyes. What a perfect first night this was shaping up to be, and he and Cassandra were not finished yet.


	2. Santa Monica

As a wolf, Beckett picked his way through the Santa Monica streets and scented the air. Cassandra had said Santa Monica housed a coterie of Thin-Bloods, and he intended to interview them, perhaps in exchange for material aide. Luckily, his Protean form resembled a coyote enough for humans to not question much, provided he rolled in the dust and scrubland dirt. An unpleasant task, but maintaining the Masquerade rarely was otherwise.

At least it was raining. A rare, precious sensation here. The drizzle cleared the air for smells beside smog, hurried humans indoors, and dissolved the chances of him stepping in a fresh wad of gum. The back alley of this diner could be materially worse, for instance—the dumpster and recycle neither oozed with strange liquid nor overflowed with trash. The paint on the door had a homey amount of grime on it, and a pleasant cooking oil shone on the knob. This place—Surfside Diner—could look like luxury accommodations for a Kindred down on their luck. Beckett’s ears twitched back and forth, counting heartbeats. An elderly tired beat, three middle-aged steady putters, and twin staccato bumpbumpbumps of some couple having a good time.

He decided to circle the building. Doing his best to mimic a shy coyote, he made slow progress, pausing to assess and smell. Grease from the kitchen, burnt burger meat, and a certain talcum powder Beckett most associated with the elderly. Bottom of the pot coffee and a sour scent of misery and sadness. He tried to peer through the windows and count the bodies—another stroke of luck that this place was in the ‘50s style, with neon and large windows. The elder waited by the cash register, and a man stood sentinel at the grill. Some worried human put their head down on their table, and their despairing tableaux struck quite the contrast with a giggling couple stumbling out of the bathroom. One old man sat at the counter, reading a newspaper. That was all then—

No. A man in the corner by the jukebox. So much in the corner that Beckett almost missed him, but now he spotted the red hair and wife beater.

Beckett pushed blood into his ears to enhance his hearing. The Beast didn’t like this plan—obviously the easiest way to determine if the man was Kindred would be to hit him and observe how he retaliated.

Yes, thank you for your ugly opinion. Beckett counted the hearts again and the evident people. The numbers didn’t add up. Someone in this diner was like him.

Were they friend or foe? Foe, certainly, but so much that Beckett mustn’t introduce himself? He darted back to the dumpster alley, and within two minutes, the diner’s entrance bell announced him. His masks in place, Beckett pushed his Beast up to his head, to view and evaluate the world around him.

Kine, kine, kine—meat, prey, warm flesh. Doris the diner maven asked what he wanted—he wanted to pop her lungs with his teeth. The grease smoke was wasted on ground beef, when it could be used to boil and humor blood to resonate. Foreign lips ordered paltry coffee, and unknown steps marched deliberate into a fortified corner, near the phones. These faces were meaningless, pointless; would wither soon. Except that one.

Hackles rose and shoulders bunched. The ginger on the opposite end of the diner from him—he was Gangrel; he had a Beast to match Beast. Not as powerful, not as old, but full of rage birthed of sorrow. Uneaten blood on the claws; torment in the soul. He would fall, and soon. No Beast could tolerate that much misery and survive.

Beckett wrestled control back, and the Beast gnawed at his bones, demanding sustenance in payment. To cover his actions, he picked up a phone, dialed a meaningless number, paused, and hung up. He moved to the counter, sat down, and thanked the cook for the coffee when it was passed over. Twenty minutes. That would be plenty of time to make this visit seem normal. Beckett would drink his coffee, carefully not meet the Gangrel’s eyes, vomit the coffee up in the alley, and continue on. Some morose fate lay before this stranger, and Beckett didn’t want to touch it, if he could help it. Not if he had a choice in the matter.

#

There was moonlight left to burn, so he left the diner to continue to his search. Wolf-bound, he skirted shadows toward the pier. Maybe he could catch some animal meal here, amongst the ocean’s detritus.

However, when he turned the block corner and got a straight view of the pier, the flash of red and blue lights made his eyes wince and spark silver. Police?

At this hour, not many cars zoomed down Pacific Coast Highway, so Beckett could easily avoid the lighted crosswalk, make soft steps through the stripe of grass Americans called a “park,” and pad his way across the pier’s planks close enough to eavesdrop without worrying about getting run down by drunk drivers. Temporary concrete barriers had been lugged out, yellow police tape unrolled, and police cruisers glaringly parked to deter civilians from attempting to enter the main pier boardwalk. Why?

He jumped over the barriers, dodged his way past the police cruisers, and loped into the shadow the nearest structure, which happened to be an arcade. The police gathered around a light pole further ahead, on a diagonal from his hiding spot. A body, dangling strips of flesh and dripping blood, hung above them.

Tsk. Sloppy waste of life and blood. His ears flicked, catching sound. Two detectives huddled together and exchanged low-voiced theories, while police officers, having no such compunction towards decency and privacy, spoke at high volume about “What the fuck is this world coming to?” “Do you see that?” “God, I’m not letting my daughter out at night anymore,” and other such mundane exclamations.

Who would win—his curiosity or the bestial hunger? He would find no food here: all rats would be scared back in their hidey holes by all this commotion. He supposed he could find a seagull nest. Ugh. Horribly greasy birds. But he _would_ find a mystery, and there was a stray thought that maybe a botched, bloody murder would be the result of a clumsy Thin-Blood. Cassandra had told him of one such case—a roaming Thin-Blood coterie fed on a Hoover camp in a most grisly manner, and she, several wraiths, and two Nosferatu had put a stop to it.

How to get closer? He breathed to collect scents—an easy task, since the sea swirled everything around nicely. Salt was the primary one, of course, and the stink of oceanic decay and Axe Body Spray. God, if he could go back in time and delete one invention, it would be that asinine deodorant. Cold cooking oil, stale cotton candy, popcorn butter, dead body, blood, and…grave soil.

His head jerked in the direction of that smell. He breathed again, and there is was, clearer but still faint. Carried to him by the wind. Keep breathing, remain low to the ground, and run on silent feet. The scent took him past the police cruisers to a stairway down to the beach, which was not blocked off. Beyond the stair landing’s railing he spotted a group of people hovering over a burning trash bin, but the sound of sand shifting against concrete made him look down the stairs and into the wide, luminous eyes of a stranger. The breeze coming off the ocean picked up and blew their scent at him and—

 _Run_.

He was not usually so obedient to instinct. But they smelled of so much blood.

#

Something strange was happening in Santa Monica, so Beckett thought best to avoid it over the next few nights. Besides, he had a friend to visit.

Beckett had first met Ramona in New York City, during a particularly nasty fight over the Eye of Hazimel the Ravnos. Ramona was the Gangrel who struck the final blow and prevented a mad Toreador from diablerizing Cassandra. There was no faster way to friendship, in these nights.

Once again a dirt-stained wolf, Beckett followed rumor to the Ballona Wetlands Ecological Reserve, right near Venice Beach. The musky damp scent of marshland competed with a nearby gas company’s constant drilling noise for worst irritant. How could humans think here, let alone Kindred?

The desperation for a spit of green in the broad-avenue concrete of the city must be dire indeed. Wetland salt and ocean salt intermingled in the air, and Beckett paused, unsure what direction to proceed. The wetlands were in a general horseshoe shape. On his current side were extravagant homes, high-end restaurants, and a small set of docks in a man-made bay. On the opposite far end, the gas company hammered on without any sort of decency, a university housed its academic buildings and students, and general riffraff warehouses held God knows what.

The smells were…many and multi-faceted, from green marsh grass and bird feathers to human waste and soda pop. The drilling quite drowned out any more subtle noises. He could ask the local animals, but he must be careful not to alert any night-walking humans, as Cassandra had warned it was popular among local university students to walk the barrier of the wetlands at night. The rich homeowners likewise had the potential to be annoying.

Perhaps he would do a lap around the wetlands—perhaps through sheer dumb luck he would bump into some sign of other Gangrel. Once he started, the lope was an easy one, with wide paths lining what in the city passed for scenic, natural views. He was just arriving at the gas company and university when the form of a coyote stepped into a phosphorescent circle of lamppost light.

Beckett slowed to a trot before taking a deep breath. Yes—that grave soil smell, with the addition of the girt of sand, acrid sunscreen, and surfboard wax. And if that wasn’t enough of a hint, the coyote’s form melted and reformed into that of a man wearing nothing but swim trunks.

“Heeeeeeey buddy,” the stranger said. His skin was deeply tan, and the hair on his head was mop of fluffy blond surfer curls. “My name’s Gangrel Pete!”

Might as well be polite. Beckett transformed back into his human shape, and he felt distinctly overdressed. Pete raised his left hand toward Beckett, the fingers stretched upward When Beckett gave a quizzical look, Pete said, “Ohhhh, you’re an old one, ain’t ya? Have you had a high-five before, my dude?”

“Pardon?”

“Aw, man, is it okay I touch your arm? I don’t mean harm, just gonna orient you.”

This Kindred…was bizarre. But when in Rome. Er, Venice Beach. He nodded his consent. “Go ahead.”

“Okay, so, like this nice gay baseball dude named Glenn Burke invented it back in 1977. You gotta hit your palm with mine. Fingers can touch too,” Pete explained. Carefully, with his free hand, he guided Beckett by the wrist until their palms hit with a tap. “The kine do it all the time. I think it’s fun!”

“Evidently,” Beckett said.

“Okay, now put a little strength behind it. Not, like, Kindred strength, but, yanno, a little enthusiasm.”

Beckett and Pete clapped their hands together with a satisfying slapping noise. The motion gave him a thrill. Huh. He would have to note this new form of greeting in his diary.

“See? Fun! Anyway, what’s your name? You’re the Clan of the Beast too, yeah?”

Beckett smirked, looking at his hand in a new light before returning his attention to Pete. “My name is Beckett. You wouldn’t happen to know where a Beast named Ramona is, would you? I was given to understand she often hangs about this area.”

Pete’s eyes almost popped out of his skull. “Beckett?! _The_ Beckett?”

“I’m not aware of any others.”

“Aw, geez, oh man, I gotta text my ma about this. She’ll want to talk to you! But, uh, yeah, Ramona and her friend are hanging out with me. I can take you. And are you busy later? You can come ‘round my Ma’s apartment and we’ll….” Here Pete seemed to falter, as if needing to think of what he could offer. He scratched his head and counted on his fingers. “Hmm, well, what would a conversation cost? A trivial boon? My Ma knows a lot about Kue-jin, if ya want to know about them. Spent the better part of the 20th century all over the Ring of Fire.”

Questions flourished like dandelions inside his head. “You lived among the Kue-Jin?”

Pete glanced up. “Uhhh. Well, I’m _from_ Britain, like you, but like, I’ve lived in lots of places. Some might say it’s the Gangrel travel bug. Been all over Australia. Jakarta in Indonesia. Singapore. Bounced around the Philippines. Spent a long while in Tokyo, Japan, but then the war broke out, so we skipped to Hawai’i. But the native Hawaiians keep track of their folks too good out there. Unlike here. One time I accidently killed this LA dude and literally no one noticed for month, man. And it wasn’t even a short month, like February.”

This perplexing chatter was at least accompanied by walking, presumably toward Ramona. Beckett put his hands in his pockets and let the musings wash over him. This Pete must be old—an ancilla at least—but he retained some liveliness. He almost reminded Beckett of Cassandra, with his eagerness to share. Any why deny himself the chance to chat about Cainites’ Eastern cousins? “I’d be delighted to make the acquaintance of your mother. Always eager to expand the knowledge of others.”

Pete lit up like Beckett had plugged him in. “Great! Sunday would be best—I always go home on Sundays, to get my clothes washed.”

“I’ll check my day book,” Beckett smirked.

Any more snarking was interrupted by a shout. Pete had led him past the gas company and into the maze of nondescript warehouses. Apparently this was also a resting place for trains and their ilk, as shipping containers and engines slumbered on tracks. Pete had stopped before one particular warehouse, one with a painted sign of “Bonpensiero Shipping” on the walls. The large garage door was rolled up to let the moonlight in, and a young twenty-year old Mexican woman yelled at him from the entrance. “Pete! What did I say about bringing randos to—oh it’s Beckett!”

Beckett raised his hand for a high-five. Ramona rolled her eyes and groaned. “Pete already got to you.” Nonetheless, she smacked his hand back, and the thrill of contact rushed through him again.

Ramona looked oddly younger than when he had seen her last. Her dark curls peeked out of a soft gray beanie and her round cheeks had a more innocent, happy appearance. “You look well,” he said.

“I heard you were in town,” Ramona said.

“When she told me she knew _the_ Beckett, I hardly believed my ears,” Pete grinned. He turned to her excitedly. “Ramona, Ramona, he’s promised to talk with Ma. Do you think I could swing this as an early Christmas present? Last year, I don’t think she much liked the book, even though Bertram assured me it weren’t cursed or nothing.”

Ramona sighed. “Dude, she didn’t like it because _The Da Vinci Code_ is a load of bullshit.”

“I thought that was the point of novels,” Pete said in a reproachful tone. “They’re all lies.”

During this enlightening banter, a man stepped out of the garage, which Beckett presumed was this group’s haven. Neither Pete nor Ramona seemed disturbed by this newcomer, so Beckett called out hello.

“Oh, this is Scott,” Ramona introduced the young man, who seemed to have been Embraced near the same age as her. “He’s our resident nerd.”

“Ah, a fellow scholar,” Beckett said. “What area do you study?”

Scott fidgeted and played with his fingers. He looked everywhere but Beckett’s face. A nervous fellow then. “Right now I’m studying Mesopotamia.”

Interest flared within him. “Ancient history is of interest to you? Or perhaps you’ve heard about the Prince’s Turkish acquisition.”

Scott’s head shot up, and Beckett knew he’d hit the mark. “Y-yeah,” Scott stuttered. He peered at Beckett. “You’re Gangrel too.”

“The Clan of the Beast, yes, but I wouldn’t put much stock in clan differences, if I were you. They are not the cults of personality others would have you believe. We are too varied and changeable for that.”

“All the same, we low Clans gotta stick together,” Pete nodded, as if he and Beckett were in perfect agreement. “I’ve been looking after these two, and the Nosferatu and I go way back. I could even hook you up with some Oracles, if you want.”

Ramona snorted. “Uh, Pete, remember that boyfriend Zelde keeps saying that Cassandra’s traveling with all the time?”

Evidently failing to see the connection, Pete squinted at her. “Yeah?”

Ramona pointed at Beckett, who snickered at Pete’s surprised expression.

Pete made an interesting “Ohhhhhhh,” noise, and Beckett got the distinct impression that there wasn’t much besides ambient ocean sound sloshing between the ancilla’s ears.

“Perhaps we can work something out. A sort of information exchange,” Beckett said, directing the conversation in more productive direction. “Since it would be foolish for Scott and I to compete for the limited LA library resources, why don’t you just give me whatever information you find that might be relevant, and I’ll owe you and your coterie a minor boon.”

Scott straightened at the mention of boons. “I’d be down for that.”

“Excellent,” Beckett said. “I could perhaps arrange for better accommodations than this no doubt lovely warehouse in the middle of train tracks, bird shit, and drilling.”

Ramona winked. “Nah, we’ll think of something better than that. It’s fine here. The college kids are tasty.”

“Quite—”

 _Boom_.

The earth tilted on its axis as a meteoric shockwave of sound and heat blasted over them. Beckett lurched, and Pete flew to the side of their younger companions, cushioning their falls with his older body. Beckett’s Beast, so mollified by pleasant company, roared to life, demanding blood, demanding answers, demanding the crack of bone.

“Get them out of here!” Beckett yelled, for he knew if he was in a state, the Ramona and Scott couldn’t be far from frenzy. A column of fire shot in the air not two warehouses away. Brown skin pale with fright, Ramona scrambled up to fighting stance, arm hair already shifting to thicker, coarser Beast stuff.

Pete jumped to his feet and pulled Scott up. The young man’s eyes glowed an ominous red through the fingers clutching his face. “Gonna be all right, kiddos,” Pete said, smoothing Scott’s hair. He straightened and nodded at Beckett. “If anyone comes after us, you hold them off?”

“For as long as I can,” Beckett nodded, sharp. “Now, go!”

Pete wrapped an arm around Scott’s waist and bodily lifted him and whistled at Ramona, which broke her out of her funk. Her big, liquid dark eyes looked at Beckett once, and Beckett knew they weren’t seeing this battle, or even Los Angeles. Pete grabbed her hand, and the group sped off.

Beckett took off his gloves and unsheathed his claws. Which was just as well, because a clearly Sabbat Lasombra burst out of the shadows in front of him and dived for his throat.

Three minutes later, Beckett was a wolf surrounded by ash. The wind still carried Kindred scent on it, and he howled as he chased the grave soil to its source.

#

“Tell me, have you by chance seen or felt anything strange since your Embrace?”

“The Santa Monica Lieutenant has a dissociative identity disorder, and the Baron is even weirder. He acted like a gentlemen and told me very politely all about this vase made out of people he’d fleshcrafted in 1968.”

“She’s undoubtedly Malkavian. Or should I say, _they_ are undoubtedly Malkavian. And, ah, I see you’ve met your first Bonpensiero. That’s Nathan for you. Try not to get on his bad side. He doesn’t forgive easily.”


	3. Downtown

“Ah, thank you, Rex,” Cassandra said, as the ghoul placed the tea setting on the coffee table between her and her brother. Even though she was technically the guest, she sat up and poured the steaming blood into their cups just as her mother had taught her all those years ago. The blood servant disappeared—swallowed up by the magical hallway, more like.

Once the blood was poured, she settled with her teacup into the blue armchair of the Tremere Chantry’s comfiest sitting room. Unlike the grand room where the Primogen, Mr. Trick, guided people he’d like to impress and/or intimidate, this visitor’s room was cozy, with its teakwood bookshelves, quiet brass candelabra light, and sanguine Victorian wallpaper. But she would have met in the cold, stone moon well if that meant she could visit with her brother Archie.

The man himself hardly changed, not in the near century they’d been siblings. His broad face, polite smile, and half-lidded gaze gave Archie a permanent easy-going expression. While Sergio could disappear in a crowd, Archie could look so painfully ordinary that the eye skipped over him. That eye would be sure to regret it later, when those nimble fingers and quick mind broke through home security systems and drained them dry. Archie had been responsible for more than a mortal man’s fair share of robberies, home invasions, and locked room mysteries.

Thankfully for the general LA population, Archie was more interested in the occult than becoming an Italian Arsène Lupin. The official story was that Archie had earned his Regent seat by virtue of his unparalleled spellcraft, honed by decades of intense study and undisturbed isolation. Cassandra was lucky enough to know that this was a partial truth. Despite their opposite natures, Cassandra and Archie were close, and his supremacy was thanks to magical skill and a few, key murders. Maximilian Strauss and Simon the Devious’ deaths had been particular fun.

The silence between the siblings was an easy one. They sipped their blood, and Cassandra’s heart warmed when she noted that Archie had chosen to wear the power-suit Sergio had designed for him. The square shape, deep black fabric and subtle glimmer of vermilion pin-stripes increased Archie’s subtextual intimidation factor, without being overwhelming or gauche. And the black matched his slicked hair. _And_ the stripes brought out the red flicker in his brown eyes.

“How are you doing, brother dear?” Cassandra asked.

Archie grunted. “Not too bad. Yourself?”

“Beckett is in town. I might leave with him soon.”

“Hmm.”

Someone passed their room, and with a jolt, Cassandra recognized them. “Is that the LaCroix’s new childe? Why are they wandering your halls?”

Archie made a lazy glance, but then sighed, set down his teacup, stood, walked over to a bookshelf, plucked a slim scarlet volume from its lineup, and shuffled over to the doorway. “Hey,” he called.

The fledgling appeared from the opposite direction than before. Cassandra felt a thrum of sympathy—were enchanted hallways truly _necessary_?

“You going to see Trick?” Archie asked. The fledgling nodded. “Well, take this, don’t show it to him, and keep turning left. You’ll get to the grand room eventually. And if you see Chakaia, tell her I want to see her. Moogle wants pets.”

“Sorry, who are you? Who the fuck is Moogle?”

“Oh, I’m Archie—Archibald Bonpensiero. Moogle is my cat.”

Cassandra called out. “He’s trying to help you, darling.”

The fledgling gave her a confused look, but they took the book and walked off. Archie returned to his seat and drank more blood. “What was that about?” Cassandra asked.

“Trick is trying to set up this Xanatos Gambit where the neonate either gets rid of his rogue gargoyle for him or gets killed in the process and LaCroix loses an asset. It’s part of a theory he’s testing.” Archie sighed again, big enough for his shoulders to stretch their square shape. “Political games bullshit.”

“And yet you’re still letting him play,” Cassandra observed. “That’s not very nice.”

Archie looked at his feet. He held his teacup with both hands and swirled the contents, like maybe it would provide answers. He was Tremere—maybe it did. “You can stop him if you want. I just feel bad for Dad.”

“How he’s grasping at Camarilla straws, you mean?” Cassandra pursed her lips around her teacup lip and swallowed a mouthful before continuing. “Do you think he was in love with Lucien LaCroix?”

Archie grimaced, for who likes to think of their parents forming romances with anyone, but his face smoothed again as he gave the idea genuine thought. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t think Dad is like you. You take after Mom. But I think Lucien was a great friend and a very good sire. Dad admired him, and Dad hates everyone.”

Cassandra tilted her head and hummed. “You’re right, as always. Divia and Lucien were…. They had their problems, but they were compelling people nonetheless. They ruled fairly. And they were methuselah! All that history, all that knowledge and experience—gone in a punch of Mama Lion’s fist. It made me sad, and I had a blood hunt on my head.”

Archie switched to rapid-fire Sicilian. More private, and an unusual show of energy on his part. “Trick and I still don’t care which political sect runs LA. I just want to do cool magic, and that’s hard to do when everyone is fighting. Camarilla was fine. Anarch is fine—they paid me to ward their bar against the Sheriff, and I did it, because it’s obvious who is going to run LA. The Anarch Free States rule the West Coast now.”

“I think so too. I’m shocked— _shocked_ —by the Sabbat presence in the city. Weren’t you the one who told me the story of ’56?” Cassandra nodded to confirm with herself. “The Sabbat tried to sneak a Templar in the city, and you, quite neatly I might add, conspired with Bertram to let them kill your predecessor and then you wiped them all out? The Gangrel ductus’s head looked so good on your wall. And! That cute frog-eyed fellow joined the Nosferatu. What’s his name—Goggins.”

Archie’s placid brown eyes were alight with rare interest, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Bertram told me that Sebastian invited the Kuei-jin in the city, and he is purposefully letting the Sabbat grow. He has all the factions here so he can play them off each other.”

Cassandra almost dropped her teacup in its saucer as she startled. “Does Dad approve of this? That seems unsubtle and moronic. I know from reputation that the Kuei-jin leader, Ming Xiao, hates us Cainites. Wouldn’t say no to wiping us off the American map!”

Archie shook his head. “Dad’s not stupid enough for that. Yet. He did invite that sarcophagus as a power play. To increase his dignitas in the Ventrue Clan. The Tremere in Venice are interested in it and already bothering me with calls.”

“You don’t think….” Even in their private family language, Cassandra didn’t want to finish the sentence.

Archie sat back in his seat and shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we were all that way?”

Cassandra eyed him. “You haven’t…?”

Archie drained the blood in his cup. “No, but you know. If everyone else is. Might as well.”

Distressing implications to distressing news. She would have to do something—organize and rally, maybe pass on some information, like in the old days, before she met Beckett. Handle this the straightforward way, like an adult, and not foist the battles to the children. Another worried hum escaped her throat, and she poured Archie more bloody tea.

“I don’t—”

The teapot crashed into the table, but the sound of broken china was drowned out by the death wailing in her head. The voices burst through her skull in light-laced rage, in clawed sorrow, in banshee screams. Cassandra’s hands slapped over her ears. A terror, a betrayal, a horror, a fire kindled and snuffed out, a history lost, a death, a death, a death, he was death—Nathan, oh God, he— _no more blood from the sire!_

#

The Last Round looked exactly the same as it had the last time Beckett had been there. And why not? The bar fit Downtown’s clash of working class and Skid Row days and ostentatious displays of corporate wealth and investment in tax-deductible cultural treasures. Businessmen, eager for a place that suggested neighborhood authenticity, could enjoy some relaxed anonymity. As their equals, wholesalers and mini-mart cashiers could burn their limited fun budget on equally flammable alcohol.

As Beckett stepped in, a holler of welcome sounded, and none other than Smiling Jack wheeled past bar patrons and arcade machines to hug him with a brotherly thump on the back. “Whoo-wee, look what the Beast dragged! If it isn’t my favorite nerd. Where you been, kid!”

Smiling Jack pulled away, and Beckett straightened and adjusted his sunglasses back on his nose. “Jack,” he said, genuinely pleased, if a little off-kilter. He hadn’t been expecting this legend of Tyler. “A pleasure as always. Stretching our land legs, are we?”

“Yeah, all the excitement’s in the States—couldn’t stay away!” Despite his warm welcome, Jack’s eyes were sharp as flint in the bushfire of his wild mane of hair, and his signature smile showed off his fangs. Beckett’s Beast responded with a warning thrill of potential danger. Unaffected, Jack said, “Come on upstairs and tell me what brings you to this neck of the woods.”

As he passed, Beckett nodded to Skelter at the foot of the stairs, and the other Gangrel returned the gesture. A tarulfang hung from a cord around Skelter’s chest—curiosity curled through his brain. He would have to get the story about that later.

The second floor was reserved for Kindred and their relations, and the rock music was muted to bearable levels for talking. Kindred-only areas didn’t guarantee cleanliness however, as the empty beer bottles doting the tables and sticky stains in the carpet could attest. Beckett zeroed in the deep red hair of his friend Damsel. Despite the tension in the room, he was eager to tease, so he stepped forward with his hand raised for a high-five.

Damsel, who had opened her mouth to say something, closed it with a snap. A brief confusion crossed her face, but it was soon replaced by a grin. She slapped his hand so hard that Beckett almost felt the need to activate Fortitude. “Look at this old man! Keeping up with the times!”

“Pete taught me,” Beckett smirked.

Damsel rolled her eyes. “Figures. That bootlicker couldn’t figure out how to drink blood outta a shoe if the directions were written on the heel. But he keeps track of the kids.”

An attractive, dark-haired man peeled himself off the wall, and Nines Rodriguez joined their little circle. “Beckett.”

Jack put a hand on Beckett’s shoulder, and he tensed further, happiness at seeing his friend Damsel circling the proverbial drain. Something was wrong. Jack said, “Knew he’d show up, with his girlfriend in town.”

“Don’t talk about my aunt that way,” said the last Anarch in the room.

As usual when he was nervous, Beckett ran his mouth: “Ahh, Anna, I see you’re here tonight and not your charming little town—Gatlin was it? Looking for more fodder for your mushroom farm?”

Anna Bonpensiero shrugged, crossed her arms, and sauntered over to their table. Her wavy brown hair had grown out since last time Beckett had seen her, and the lethal look of her muscles had doubled. Her eyes had the same dark glitter as Cassandra’s. “There’s plenty of Sabbat for that, don’t worry.”

It wasn’t his first time surrounded by Brujah, and Beckett felt a low, golden hum of Presence at the edges of his senses, whispering soothing, aching nothings. He had a suspicion that Nines didn’t know how to turn his wholesome, underdog charm off. Smiling Jack gave Beckett’s shoulder a squeeze, and a thrill of ice traveled down his spine—this was no time for basking.

He would have to reassure them. “I came here tonight simply to catch up with friends. I’m sure you’ve heard from Ramona—I met her under similar circumstances.”

Jack let him go, and Beckett couldn’t stop himself from breathing. But then he continued, “But if you mean, LA in general, I was invited by LaCroix.”

Jack growled at the name. Having no such filter, Damsel shouted, “That mother fucker messing with you?!”

Nines and Anna leveled him with steady, expectant gazes. He would give them explanation, one way or another.

“I’m perfectly all right, Damsel,” Beckett said, addressing her in specific. “Enzo is the mastermind behind the invitation. He wants me to study the coffin he has spent so much of his resources digging up and transporting here.”

While LaCroix’s name had produced a reaction in the negative, a mention of the Turkish artifact produced a hiss of disquiet.

“Ain’t nothing good coming from that thing,” Nines said. “I’d find a way to refuse the invitation if you can.”

If it were just he and Damsel, Beckett would mock pout. As it was, he stuck his hands in his pockets and kept his voice wry and dry. “Gehenna is not a jack-in-the-box to be winded up and deployed whenever something odd happens. Perhaps the Santa Ana winds are making you all jittery.”

Anna frowned. “Dude, you haven’t been here. Weird shit’s happening.”

Beckett arched a brow. “Doesn’t ‘weird shit,’ as you so eloquently put it, happen every decade?”

Anna shook her head. “I know this isn’t the apocalypse Aunt Cassandra is always mumbling about, but she also says different ones can happen, right? We gotta be vigilant.”

“Tell me what’s been happening then. Maybe I can find the rational explanation behind this madness.”

Nines said, “The Sabbat are mass-Embracing like there’s no tomorrow and screaming about Gehenna every damn night, and every damn night we’re trying anew to put ‘em down. We could have taken them when they first arrived, but with LaCroix’s breathing down our necks, it’s too risky to decimate our numbers in that battle. Wouldn’t have enough for the next one against him.”

“Kindred are acting cagey or leaving town. Sometimes ‘cause we take ‘em out,” Jack supplied, with another flash of ghoulish grin, before sobering. “Other times they’re leaving town for ‘cooler weather’ or some shit. Feels like rats leaving a sinking ship.”

Anna counted incidents off on her fingers. “There’s a Caitiff hacking up kine, and no one can track him—people call him the Southland Slasher. The Voerman sisters think they can take the Nosferatu, which is ridiculous, but rumor has it that one of the Nos has gone missing. What was the name—oh, yeah, Ocean House Hotel ghosts are acting up again. A whole ass gargoyle suddenly lives in the Chinese Theater, and we don’t know where it came from. Hunters are crawling over Hollywood, and the dead of the Cemetery are rising. Griffith Park Garou got more sticks up their asses than usual. That one wacko suddenly Embraced a childe without permission, and they’re up to some crazy stuff.”

Damsel nodded. “Damn right! That kid took out a plague cult! I asked them to investigate and next thing you know they’re coming in here smelling like zombie and showing me some Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle man’s head. What the fuck.”

Jack laughed, which was a whole-body affair. “Oh man! Did you see what they came strapped with! I told them to get their own gun, but they have a SPAS and a sledgehammer, courtesy of some Camarilla pipsqueak in Santa Monica.”

Beckett took in this information with a calm mind, making connections and searching for truth among bias. “These are hallmarks of a badly run Camarilla city. The Sabbat are attracting the Hunters and upsetting the Garou with their Masquerade breaches. Their madness is rubbing off on the other local supernatural populace. The gargoyle is no doubt some Tremere mistake. I imagine that negotiations to recruit it to the Anarch cause have not gone well?”

Everyone looked blankly at him for a moment before Anna spoke slowly, like she was talking to a child. The Beast didn’t like it in the least. “You think we should try to convince to a giant, angry rock to go Anarch?”

“Gargoyles are as much Kindred as you or I. They are chained to the shadows, require blood to thrive, and are susceptible to human and Bestial emotion.”

Even Jack looked surprised as this news. “You mean…they’re aware?” Nines asked. “They’ve been aware this whole time?”

“Yes, well, some people agree to it, as there is quite the opportunity for fighting power, or they are protective of their loved ones by nature. Other times, and sadly more often, it is not an informed, enthusiastic choice,” Beckett said, mentally noting that he ought to suggest some reading materials to this group.

Nines looked at the floor and shook his head. “I had no idea. They’re living in Abrams territory—he’ll have to make the call. But we’ll tell him.”

Jack gave a low whistle. “Makes me almost feel bad for the poor bastards.”

Beckett said, “In any case—”

A pure-hearted scream cut off any words; drowned out the rock music. A stumbling Malkavian sped up the stairs like they were on fire. “ _The death of the father! Killer with a mask of the ninth!!!”_

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Nines said. He caught the Malkavian by the elbows, and they looked up with eyes wide with prophecy—a look Beckett was all too familiar with.

The childe fisted their hands into Nines’ shirt. “You have to run! Dr. Carter and Alistair Grout are dead and someone with your face killed them!”

Damsel turned pale and distinctly rattled. “What the fuck are you talking about—he’s been here the whole time!”

His jaw set in determination, Jack detached the Malkavian from Nines finger by finger. “You gotta go, kiddo. The Camarilla don’t care about the truth. This is a set up.”

Anna had been quiet until now, but her eyes found Beckett’s and he knew what she was going to say before she said it: “Nathan.”

She pointed at herself. “He’s going to tear something apart and I’ll go make sure it’s something useful. You,” she pointed at him, “go to Cassandra and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

#

Beckett found her in Sergio’s room. The lights were off, except for the low blue of the aquarium, and the scent of incense, violets, and cassia flowers pervaded the air. Sergio’s sleeping form breathed in gentle rhythm; curled under covers. Cassandra and Zelde sat on the foot of the bed, with the childe’s arm wrapped around her sire. Cassandra’s hands clutched at one another. Prayer or comfort? Beckett couldn’t tell.

He knelt before her. “Cassandra,” he whispered, and he grasped her hands with his own. He kissed her knuckles; her wrists. She looked at him with those dark star eyes, and he kissed the tears off her face. “My dear.”

“The bishops didn’t have to be sacrificed. The game could have played differently,” she said in a shaky whisper. Zelde’s grip tightened, and she hid her face behind Cassandra’s back, against her shoulder blade.

Cassandra was a little displaced it seemed—they’d been together long enough for Beckett to know a Malkavian in shock. Beckett brushed a stray curl behind her ear. “I heard what happened. Anna went after Nathan.”

“It hurt like we ourselves were dying,” Zelde said, her voice a rasp, like she was dehydrated. The usually calm childe gave a full-body shiver. “Like a bomb had landed on us. Like back in the Great War.”

“Hush now. Hush now, my darling,” Cassandra said, and she moved to kiss Zelde on the cheek. “Don’t think of that. I’m here.”

“We are all together, and sunrise is in an hour,” Beckett said. “Has anyone woken Sergio? They should be informed. It won’t be safe to travel to that area, even in the daytime.”

A familiar groan, and Beckett rose to watch Sergio squirm. Their pale face blinked up at him from a nest of blankets and pillow. “I would recognize that voice in a throng of thousands.” Even in the depths of dim blue darkness, they beamed a trickster smile. “Beckett, why can’t I go where I please?”

“There’s been an incident,” Beckett said. He brushed his leather gloves against Cassandra’s head, and she hummed at the idle contact.

“The bishops,” she murmured, but she must have pulled her fractures tighter, for she straightened, stood, and pulled her childe up. Zelde hovered close as Cassandra addressed her ghoul. “We’re sorry to wake you, darling, but Beckett is right.”

Sergio scoffed and collected their eyeglasses from the nightstand. After affixing the device on their nose, they said, “Don’t be ridiculous. It is all right. I haven’t seen you in nights, anyway. Tell me what has happened.”

It was true—whatever ill-thought was descending on the city like an extra layer of smog was making Sergio sleep as soon as the sun was down. Perfectly normal for someone with depression, but Beckett missed their laughter and bravado.

Cassandra took a deep breath, and said, in her gentlest voice, “Dr. Carter and Dr. Grout are dead, darling. It’s being said Nines Rodriguez killed them both. That fledging I told you about witnessed it. Hunters were also on the scene, and they burned the building to ash.” Cassandra squeezed Zelde’s hand. “I don’t think you had any friends among them, but Mrs. Grout; all those ghouls…. There’s been no word.”

Sergio sat up in bed, which would have suggested quick movement, but they stopped. Even in the low light, Beckett could make out a certain paroxysm of despair across their face. “That would explain why I dreamed of fire.” A pause, and a wry smile covered any sorrow. “Would you mind cooking me breakfast? And Zelde, go with her—it has been eighty years and _mi tesorina_ will burn salad.”

Zelde returned their smile weakly. “She never changes.”

Cassandra laughed, which rang strung out, but close enough to normal. “That was one time.”

“Beckett will stay with me and tell me details,” Sergio said.

And it was so.

When the women left, Sergio patted the space beside them. Shedding all but his shirt, Beckett joined them under the covers. “Now tell me what Cassandra and Zelde will not,” Sergio said. “And someone is helping Nathan plot revenge, yes?”

Beckett filled Sergio in as best he could, adding in the tense welcome he received among the Anarchs and their report of a city gone awry. When Beckett finished, Sergio yawned, and, despite having just woken up, they already seemed drained and colorless.

“And you still intend to study this sarcophagus, yes?” they asked.

“None of these concerns present themselves as a major objection to me,” Beckett said. “If anything, perhaps Enzo will see me as a better son-in-law.”

Sergio snorted. “You do not want Enzo’s approval nor to be at his beck and call. He and his retainers inherit the wind.”

“How whimsical,” Beckett said. He reached, gathered Sergio to him, and let the human warmth relax his Beast, his body. He’d survived odder nights, but this uncanny foreboding disquieted all the same. It distressed him to see his loved ones so mangled.

He counted five heartbeats before Sergio said, “If we are not fleeing the city to get out of this nonsense, I want you to do something for me, before the ladies get back.”

“What?”

“You’ve heard of the new blood studies the Thin-Bloods are doing, yes? It is like Tremere magic, but they call it alchemy, and it doesn’t work for Kindred with thicker stuff. Maybe Caitiff. Don’t know yet.”

“Thin-Blood alchemy is a wisp of a rumor, but a new fascination of mine nonetheless,” Beckett said. “I want to speak with the more established Duskborn communities here for that very reason.”

“When I am not exhausted, I am emailing them.”

“Really now?” Beckett said, arch. Who knew a research lead was lodged with a sleeping partner underground? “What do they want with you?”

“Do not take this an indication of my age, but I am the oldest ghoul they know,” Sergio said. “So they like playing around with my blood. Poking at it. I don’t quite understand where the science meets the magic. But they told me last week that I am a weird word. ‘Dyscrasia’ I think is how you say?”

“‘Bad mixture’ in the Greek. Little rude, don’t you think?” Beckett kissed the top of Sergio’s head, which was nestled against his breast. He breathed in a long draught of their scent, and his Beast mewled in contentment.

“Apparently I am overly melancholic.”

“That is a very antiquated way to think of your condition. Are these people kind to you? Shall I destroy them?”

Sergio laughed. “No! They are perfectly fine, and you have too big a heart to do that anyway. The important bit is when they drink my blood, their fellows have a hard time finding them, and their skin is tougher.”

This was a discovery indeed. He would have to increase the priority of talking with these…alchemists. And alert the other Mnemosyne to reach out to their Duskborn contacts. “It increases Fortitude and Obfuscate. I would like that email, if you don’t mind.”

Sergio shrugged. “Of course. You are highly recommended in my book.”

New lines of inquiry stuttered when Beckett realized: “Why bring this up now? What does this have to do with our present situation?”

“Do not wait on LaCroix’s whims. Go to the Museum as soon as you hear that the coffin is there. Sneak in and study it as quick as possible. The sooner your mission is over, the sooner we can leave. And,” Sergio wiggled out of his hold to look him in the eye, “drink from me.”

“Assuming their research isn’t faulty, it would be helpful to be harder to find and kill,” Beckett admitted, but worry nagged at his gut. “But are you sure? You are not feeling your best.”

Sergio dismissed the notion with a flippant wave. “That is why I ask this of you while Zelde and Cassandra are blackening my eggs.” Suddenly Beckett’s hair was tangled in their fingers, and they tugged, which was an unfair exploitation of a known weakness. Further exploitation took the form of a hard, biting kiss, of nails scratched against his jaw, of breaking away just as Beckett’s Beast desired more.

“Let me protect you,” Sergio whispered. “Please, _mi tesorino_.”

That voice, husky in his ear, laced through with love—he had no defenses against it, and Beckett bit down.


	4. Hollywood

A week of nights passed. He had tea with Gangrel Pete’s mother, Mrs. Cole, whose head was as full of thoughts as her son’s was void of them. After taking so long to reach its damned destination due “mysterious circumstances” (i.e. probably LaCroix’s crack team botching their investigation), the Anakaran sarcophagus arrived at the Museum of Natural History, only to be stolen within hours. LaCroix’s errand fledgling discovered the theft minutes after Beckett did. It struck him as a waste of Sergio’s gift.

At least he and the neonate had an interesting conversation. Even with Sergio’s electronic introduction and Cassandra’s accompanying social help, the Thin-Bloods were deeply mistrustful and guarded their secrets well. The Santa Monica Thin-Bloods—the crowd Beckett had sniffed out near the pier—knew astonishing little about much of anything. Though he had hoped to be taught, he did the teaching there, and Cassandra gifted them bus tickets and pocket money. Constantly on the move, the alchemists had no set physical location and emailed back pamphlets about their rights, styled after feminist, black power, and workers’ zines. When Beckett hinted that he respected their personhood and was interested in an informational exchange—perhaps money, magical artifacts, and/or the contact information of European Thin-Bloods would interest them?—adcxu@mail.vtm sent “VIRUS ALERT: read me!”

Annoying.

After another fruitless night of searching the World Wide Web for hints of Thin-Blood meeting places or alchemical recipes in code, Beckett returned from the Ground Zero Internet Café to Haven. Tonight had been particularly vexing because his good Nosferatu ally Okulos had teamed up with Lucita to deride him for his lacking computer capabilities. He had sent his first AOL chat “emoticon,” and apparently he had erred and accidentally propositioned his friends.

Voices—as he opened the door to the reserved Kindred area of Haven, he spotted Cassandra and LaCroix’s errand neonate, and they were sitting in a booth. The neonate placed an intimate hand on top of Cassandra’s. Well then.

“Beckett!” Cassandra practically leapt to his side. With the Malkavian elders’ deaths, the pressure in the air had pierced his own awareness, and he carried the knocking tension everywhere he went. He couldn’t begin to imagine the strain pulling at those more sensitive—what, exactly, was causing Cassandra’s skin to seem thinner, more translucent, like layers of tulle stretched over veins and muscle. Her movements of late had been quick and jerky, and now she tugged at his sleeve like a bird looking for seed. “Beckett, you would not believe what VV has this fledgling doing.”

Beckett’s gaze swept to said fledgling. “We meet again, young one. I see the Prince has let you loose on Isaac’s barony. Though what he could possibly want in such Anarch territory is beyond me. Are you supposed to make someone cry out of pity?”

Cassandra tugged again. “You don’t understand—VV is sending them after the hunters.”

Beckett arched a brow and looked between Cassandra and the neonate. This was not a prank—neither were smiling. In fact, Cassandra’s face looked especially pale, and she frowned with a narrow intensity in her dark eyes. Vague echoes of reading Anatole Bible stories to gently bring him back to earth zipped through his mind. He suppressed the urge to wrap an arm around Cassandra’s waist, pull her close, and kiss her temple. “You’re not joking?”

“I know she’s nervous about herself and Ash, but look at them!” Cassandra gestured at the neonate, who blinked owlishly. “It’s like sending a child after wolves!”

“Hey now,” the neonate said. “I can take hunters. They’re just humans.”

“Hunters have their own place in our supernatural ecosystem. Mainly eliminating the foolish. I thought a Toreador of Miss Velour’s age and caliber would have no trouble getting them off her proverbial lawn.”

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose—well, annoyed was better than afraid. “She claims she’s too soft-hearted for the task. I don’t understand why she thinks foisting the death on someone else is any better. Honestly.” She scoffed.

Beckett rolled his eyes and gave the neonate an amused expression. “Is _everyone_ in LA trying to kill you or asking you to murder, young one, or are you simply lucky like this?”

They grinned. “Just lucky.”

Cassandra started. “Who else has tried to kill you? The nights you’ve been among us hasn’t hit the triple digits. Wait. No.” She held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”

“Unless the majority of the Anarchs have suffered a case of mistaken identity, the young one is more than capable of taking care of themselves,” Beckett said, patting her shoulder.

His touch steadied her. Eyes fluttering closed, Cassandra made a long, rib-expanding sigh through her nose. “Thank you, darling.” Her next words were still sharp, but calmer, clearer. “What is VV offering you in exchange for solving her and Ash’s problems?”

The neonate froze like their hand had been caught in the cookie jar. “Uh. Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Not that I was going to take her up on it!” Still fresh from the grave, the neonate blushed, and Beckett had to smother his snicker with a cough.

“That is—technically—not ‘stuff,’” Cassandra said, and she rubbed her face in exasperation. “Toreadors.”

“You say that like that you’re not a Toreador,” the neonate said.

“I am Malkav’s childe, and we can’t let this happen. It’s so stupid it’s going to bother me.”

Beckett didn’t much see the harm—from his past research into the Ninth Circle, they were much harder to eliminate than a small group of hunters. But he had not spent the decades discouraging Cassandra’s compassion. He gave her a nudge. “Perhaps you can make a counter-offer, something that will fulfill the whim of Isaac’s favored daughter and satisfy your compunctions.”

The neonate’s gaze darted between the two of them with a perplexed expression. Cassandra put her knuckle against her lips in thought. “Beckett?”

“What entertaining scheme have you come up with?” He smiled—his humor was returning. No night with Cassandra was misery.

“You got a message from Scott tonight, something about meeting him in a Santa Monica smoke shop.”

“Go on.”

“What if you sent them instead? It’s to collect research notes, right? And _I’ll_ take care of the hunters.” She flicked a dismissive hand, and her next words addressed the neonate. “You can tell VV you did it, if you need the fuel for your romance.”

Cassandra was a lot of things, but a fighter wasn’t one of them. Beckett knocked his hips against hers. “Won’t it be awkward for you to fight a fellow Catholic?”

She laughed. “You’re forgetting your Church history, darling. But anyway.” She straightened, smiled at the neonate, though Beckett noted it wasn’t an easy one, and offered her hand to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

They shook hands.

Leaving Cassandra and the young one to sort out the details, Beckett went to the bar, which was unmanned, and poured himself some blood from the fridge. It was impossible to drink too much blood, these nights. Settled the riled nerves with every sip.

Not that he was eavesdropping, but Cassandra and the neonate’s discussion seemed to be wrapping up, and Beckett expected the neonate to leave and Cassandra to step into his arms. However, Zelde popped her head in, from the doorway that lead deeper in Haven’s underground rooms, and said, “Cassie, can I borrow you for something?”

“Of course, darling. See you later, darlings,” Cassandra said, breezing past Beckett and the neonate with a wave.

Beckett threw back the blood in a shot and made to follow, except the neonate stepped in front of him. This interview was evidently not over. “Something else on your mind?”

“What are you doing here, Beckett?” the neonate asked, their head tilting in question.

“I did say I was visiting old friends, didn’t I?” He made a vague, sweeping motion to the dance hall. “Cassandra and I go way back…longer than you’ve been alive.”

Haven hadn’t shifted from its Art Deco roots, not since he first arrived during WWII. Geometric gold lines gleamed with white tilework; glass chandeliers like tiered cakes hung from the ceiling; a full moon made of mirror chips and dangling gold thread glinted as background for the small stage. The kine’s dance hall was larger and had an artist’s rising sun as stage decoration. But LA Kindred were more likely to cluster and chat at the many round tables or booths than dance anyway. Beckett had forgotten to ask if Cassandra had a particular attachment to the design, or if she was taking the long view and trusted that Art Deco would come back in fashion one night.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The neonate seemed to have exhausted their mental calculation abilities, assuming they were trying to figure out Beckett’s age.

He liked this neonate well enough. His mellowed mood lent to teasing with non-answers. “When we’re Embraced, Kindred carry over many things—their eccentricities, their superstitions. And their love.”

The neonate made a sheepish expression. “You saw me make my move then. But you’re not mad that I flirted with her?”

“With Cassandra? Flirt all you like. She’ll enjoy it.” Beckett smirked. Youth. VV and Cassandra were the same general type, he supposed.

“What are the Bonpensieros to you?” The neonate scrunched their face adorably.

Beckett shrugged. “The whole family—well, I’d be extremely wary of them. They’re a mercurial lot.”

“And Cassandra specifically—what is she to you?”

“Well….” A memory came to him, and Beckett grinned wide enough to show his fangs. “I suppose you can call her my wife.”

#

The wine cellar gasped shadows, and Cassandra knew her Slayer sister was here. Zelde lead her down the stairs, and they plunged into the inky black, sticky and thick. Deep in Nightshade’s gentle, primordial coolness, Cassandra flicked on her senses and saw.

Matilda the Vampire Slayer sat on the floor with her thick legs dangling in the sewer entrance normally reserved for the Nosferatu. Her body looked much the same as it had when Cassandra first laid eyes on her eighty-three years ago, on Nathan’s arm. Granted, her ginger hair was pulled back in a modern ponytail instead of a short flapper cut and her beaded gowns had been exchanged for a leather jacket and blue jeans, but the same freckles dusted her button nose and her short stature belied the bulge of muscle on her frame. Somehow, every time they met, Cassandra’s heart gave a pang—shouldn’t Matilda be breathing? Shouldn’t her skin be warm and fragrant with lily and currants? Shouldn’t her honey brown eyes hold only kindness and not this glint of iron will?

Zelde interrupted Cassandra’s thoughts. “I found her upstairs with Beckett and LaCroix’s new childe.”

“Is that right?” Matilda kicked her legs back and forth, and her mouth made a lipsticked sneer. “What’s the new dupe up to?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about them like that,” Cassandra chided, soft. “They had less choice than you did, for their Embrace. And you know I don’t say that lightly.”

Matilda huffed and shifted in her seat—suddenly Cassandra was aware that the Slayer was armed with sword, guns, and stakes as the weapons rustled and creaked against fabric. “All right, all right, let’s not fight. Zelde says you were talking about my hunters upstairs?”

“The ones you gathered in LA seem to be distracted. We organized them to fight the Sabbat, and they’re sniffing around Hollywood and finding all the wrong people,” Cassandra said in hushed tones. A meeting of three women in the dark—it made her want to whisper. “The young one was charged to protect VV and Ash, but I managed to get them to run an errand for Beckett instead.”

Matilda blinked, and her face transformed into a soft giggle. “Those knuckleheads.” The sheathed sword strapped to her back tapped the floor. “‘Check out Hollywood,’ I said. ‘Especially in the filth.’ I didn’t mean the dance clubs! I meant get in the sewer. You know, with the human waste! No wonder I haven’t seen them.”

Zelde made a disapproving noise. “Are you serious? They thought you meant the clubs?”

Matilda’s low laughter faded, and a more contemplative, dreamy look passed over. Matilda epitomized the changeable Malkavian mood. “It’s weird to think—how our perspectives have changed, but the humans’ stay the same. Aren’t we supposed to be the unchanging, frozen ones? What goes on in Vesuvius is nothing to me. If anything, it’s good old-fashioned fun. I have seen true evil and paying Misti for a dance isn’t it. Yet, like my grandparents before them, these hunters think dancing, drinking, and smoking are super bad.” She shook herself back to the practical. “Anyway, I’ll ring them up and re-explain.”

Disappointment pre-emptively rushed through Cassandra as to what she was going to say next. She so rarely saw Matilda in person. “I don’t want to ask, but I think I must. Did you—did you arrange for Dr. Carter’s death?”

All amusement vanished, and the hard-boiled Slayer returned with a vengeance. The shadows lengthened, grasped; thickened. “No,” Matilda snapped. “But I wish I had. I was halfway across town when I heard the Cobweb scream. I hope he never comes back, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Zelde touched Cassandra’s arm in warning, and Cassandra laced their fingers. “Okay. I just wanted to know.”

“It’s good to have you back in town,” Matilda said. “If you have any other suggested targets, you have my number. The Camarilla’s a little thin on the ground, and it’s hard to know whose earned a beat down besides them.”

“I promised Beckett I wouldn’t get back in the game,” Cassandra said, unable to answer Matilda’s challenging glare.

Zelde saved her. “Having so few cruel people that none warrant murder—that is a good thing. Maybe you can rest.”

“Does Caine rest? Does his regret at Kindred’s creation ever cease? Does the powerful establishment ever stop harming us poor little ones, because they want more power?” Matilda said. “Not fucking likely. Keep passing me names, Zelde.”

Surprise cracked her face. “You’ve been supplying her?” Cassandra asked.

Zelde squeezed Cassandra’s hand. “You’ve been gone a long time, Cassie. I had to keep Haven and our friends safe from all sorts of people.”

“Getting real good at Kuei-jin,” Matilda said. “You wouldn’t believe their war forms. Powerful stuff. But eventually Ming Xiao’s gotta get tired of sending her minions to die. Bertram told me about one in Santa Monica the other night, but LaCroix’s fledgling beat me to ‘em.”

Urgency ran through her as easy as red. “But only threats to Haven and our friends? This operation blew up in our faces once before, but we survived because they couldn’t connect Zelde in specific, I was with Beckett in Morocco, and Matilda, you—didn’t you hide out in Santa Barbara until the Anarch Revolt?”

Matilda’s jaw tightened, and her eyes held a burning intensity. “That’s not happening again. Ever. I won’t let it. Zelde is safe with me. LA is our home.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” She looked between them. “Thank you both.”

“Anarch Free States forever.”


	5. The Mansion of Ghosts

Blush of Life cost her nothing, but being handed champagne during what she thought was a Kindred gathering sent mixed signals. Her nephew Nathan grumbled into his glass. “Why am I being handed this shit?”

“Perhaps not everyone in the family knows?” Cassandra murmured as the waiter passed them.

Nathan was a compilation of opposites—one moment he was a gentlemen with a silver-tongue, classic Hollywood good looks, and quixotic magnetism, like the hero out of a storybook; the next second his skin would seem ill-fit for his face, like a mask over some unspeakable horror of narcissism and blood. The former Sheriff of LA thrived in chaos, and Cassandra was understandably nervous—ostensibly he had come to beg a boon from their Giovanni contact and gather help raising Dr. Carter from the grave, but he could just as easily decide to murder every person in the room.

Nathan snapped, “Stop thinking rude thoughts about me and check with Auspex where the fuck Cordelia is. I didn’t come here to hang around with humans.” He muttered under his breath: “What kind of party is this? There isn’t even a cat to pet.”

“All right, all right,” Cassandra soothed. “At least you’re the best dressed in the room.”

“I really am, aren’t I? That one looks like he’s about to go bankrupt, judging by the cut.”

Trying to make the gesture resemble a discreet touch up of her hair, Cassandra peeled away any distinction between herself and the rest of the world. They were all connected, all balanced, and all exposed. Touching Nathan’s arm was the same as caressing her own.

Her gaze swept the room for more like her, more wrapped in a cloak of purple and walking the shadowed valley. The blue-gray marble columns and sunken floor hide a few, and she linked arms with Nathan’s. Together they took a turn around the room. The piano music thrilled down the muscles of her arm, curled around bones of her wrist, and loosened the book dust grit under her fingernails. She thought LA’s dreadful pressure would be less here, so far in the suburbs, but it weighed her like stones in the pocket of the drowned.

 _There_.

Cassandra blinked. No. That was LaCroix’s childe. Again?

Cassandra whispered in Nathan’s ear. “We have a complication.”

“Oh my god, why can’t anything be easy.” Nathan’s gaze darted back and forth. “Where—oh shit, it’s LaCroix’s kid.”

The two Bonpensieros sauntered with great nonchalance towards the neonate. “Hey squirt,” Nathan said, and with his other arm, he dragged them all into a backroom library.

Leaving Nathan’s guiding elbow, Cassandra shook off Auspex, sealing herself off from the world once more. Loneliness nibbled at the edges, but she had to focus. “What are you doing here, darling?”

“What are you two doing here?” the neonate countered.

“This is not a game of why the fuck is everyone here!” Nathan said, stomping his foot and evidently fast losing his patience. “We’re here to resurrect my sire because it’s fucking irritating that he’s dead.”

“You can do that?” the neonate asked in an alarmed voice.

“No! That’s why I need fucking Cordelia to get off her duff and find his soul with her bullshit necromantic powers.”

“Who’s Cordelia?”

Nathan slapped his face and dragged his fingers down it. “Uuuuugh, I forgot you ask so many questions. Cordelia is the head of the West Coast branch of the Giovanni, and I’m really hoping she’s here and not Bruno, but Bruno’s a massive bag of dicks. And please tell me you know who the Giovanni are, and you didn’t stumble here by accident.”

“Sure, they’re spaghetti and corpses, boss.”

“Now, now,” Cassandra moved around the room, peering at the book titles, nudging the desk, and pressing into the softness of carpet. A shiver went up her spine. She closed her eyes and—oh my. “There are many, many spirits here.”

“Your turn to answer,” Nathan snapped at the fledgling, ignoring Cassandra. Annoyance flared—one would think that, with their shared blood and Clan, Nathan and Cassandra would have more cordial relations. “Don’t test me. If you don’t want to answer, I’ll rip out your tongue, cut it into silvers, and take the answer outta those.”

The neonate backed up, though this action bumped them right into Cassandra. “Nathan will not,” she said, stubborn. “But perhaps we can help each other.”

The neonate gave a clear pause, and Nathan tensed. But finally, they spoke, “The Nosferatu stole and sold the sarcophagus to the Giovanni. I’m here to, uh, get it back.”

“Just you? By yourself?!” Cassandra looked about, half expecting a Nosferatu or other ally to de-cloak. “Is the Prince losing his mind?”

“Pfft, like he hasn’t already, the annoying little shit,” Nathan scoffed. “But that is interesting.”

“Do you want to steal the sarcophagus to annoy Dad?” Cassandra asked, genuinely curious.

Nathan made a derisive noise. “Too much trouble. Santa Monica’s got enough going on.”

“I wish we were all together again,” Cassandra said. “All the Bonpeniseros looking out for each other….”

Nathan arched a brow. “You’re the one always leaving town.”

“Yes,” Cassandra admitted and wrung her hands. “But I love that too.” She shook her head and patted the neonate on the shoulder absently. “Well, nephew dear, how about we help Dad for old time’s sake? You don’t need my help to become the center of attention and demand Cordelia talk with you. You distract everyone up here, while the young one and I try to find the ancient box.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t need any backup against a stronghold of Giovanni,” Nathan said. “It’s fiiiiiine.”

Wishing Anna was with her, Cassandra gave Nathan a wry look. “You have more charisma and power in your pinky finger than Bruno has in his whole body.”

“You’ll just—you’re just going to help me?” the neonate said. “For free?”

Cassandra shrugged. “It’s the right thing to do. If it makes you feel better, I would prefer you don’t tell Don Enzo or Prince LaCroix about the Nosferatu bit, because mention of Nos betrayals tends to raise my father’s blood pressure. But that is not necessary to the deal.”

Nathan rolled his eyes. “You know Grandpa’s fucking dead—he doesn’t need to worry about this blood pressure.”

“Are we agreed?” Cassandra asked, more so of the neonate than Nathan.

A tiny nod, but it was enough.

“I’m gonna eat everyone until Cordelia comes out,” Nathan said. He cracked his knuckles and a sallow color entered his sculpted face, before his head erupted in menacing, golden crown of light. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” Cassandra said, and she kissed him on the cheek.

The neonate stood agog as Nathan marched out of the library, kicked open the doors, and shouted. “Hello, mortals—shut the fuck up while the important people talk. Come out, come out, wherever you are, Cordelia!”

“Onward and downward,” Cassandra said. “Now, let’s chat with some Wraiths and maybe they’ll know where the secret switch is. Doesn’t this room look like it has a secret switch?”

#

“We Chang Brothers accept your lives graciously.”

Cassandra pleaded, “No, this isn’t—”

Blade Brother lifted his sword, and she knew all other choices were gone. She yanked the neonate to her, let the cool fog of Obfuscate descend on them both, and ran.

“We have to fight!” the neonate said. “I have to get the sarcophagus!”

Stone stairs upward—they would go to Nathan and he would protect them. “This isn’t worth your life!” she hissed.

White light exploded on the top steps in front of them, and Cassandra reeled backward. The Brothers could see?

The fledgling beside her raised their sword just in time to block Blade Brother’s strike. On the bottom of the stairwell, Claw Brother melded out of a similar white, lethal rip in the universe. Counter attacks ran through her mind, but Dementation would harm the neonate as well as their enemies.

“Move!” the neonate shouted, and Cassandra ducked as they swung their sword, fitted it between Claw Brother’s fingers, and heaved the man into the wall with a crunch. Stone rattled, and the neonate grabbed Cassandra’s hand to run, to keep on the move. Where had Blade Brother gone? Were they already defeated?

Cassandra and the neonate were on the top walkway of the circular arena, and Cassandra spotted Blade Brother across from them. His hands honed and shaped some sort of amorphous ball of light. As the neonate pulled out and fired a gun, Cassandra covered her eyes, called on her blood, and screamed.

In the space of a heartbeat, twenty Cassandra’s and twenty neonates populated the room. After-images, fleshed out shadows, image projections—it didn’t matter what one called them. They were a distraction.

“What the fuck?” the neonate said, and twenty images copied and repeated, “What the fuck,” back at them.

“I’m terribly sorry to rush you, but if you could murder the brothers please,” the multiple Cassandra’s said. “These are rather difficult to maintain.”

The Brothers, together now, seemed insulted by this tactic, or perhaps they held back on their first blows, because they cut the images beside them down with the steadfast determination of a farmer to heads of wheat. Cassandra and the neonate darted around the circle and down more stairs. They came upon the Brothers already in the center area doing—some sort of foot dance?

“Bomb!” Cassandra said, and she pulled the neonate backward in the nick of time to avoid the blast. They huddled in the bottom stairwell nook as, in one move, all of her ghosts in the center had been obliterated, and the Brothers jumped to the top walkway to make quick work of the ones there.

“I can shoot them from here,” the neonate—and their remaining doubles—said. They rummaged in their backpack and pulled out an alarming looking gun. Perhaps some sort of sniper?

“How do you feel about fire?” Cassandra asked. “Do you find yourself succumbing to Red Fear easily?” The other Cassandra’s chanted just the same.

“Not now,” the neonate said, and others repeated. They aimed their big gun, and a second later a masculine scream sounded. That’s a hit.

Another scream and another—perhaps they were weakened now? That was too hopeful—the universe split behind them, and Cassandra cursed her lack of Fortitude as a sword ran through her left lung. Inches from her heart.

The neonate whirled, and a shot ran through her ear and grazed a hot metal path through Blade Brother’s temple. Cassandra gripped the sword by the blade and locked him in. Blood dripped through her fingers, but she managed to smear the red across the Brother’s shocked face and cough a curse: “Catatonia.”

The Malkavian Dementation was faster than any poison, deadlier than any parasite, more final than any death. The Brother froze, his eyes fluttered closed, and his muscular body, honed by centuries, fell to the ground in a discordant tangle of doll-like limbs. Horror crossed the neonate’s face, and bloody ichor, thick as sin, spat out of Cassandra’s mouth and onto a man damned to slumber without dreams.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her fingers were severed through to the chewy tendons, and the sword—she was bleeding, bleeding out her life in a mess.

The neonate tackled her to the ground, and a blazing heat interrupted any more reverie. Fireballs? “We have to move!” the neonate hissed.

They ran past the body and up the stairs, and Cassandra half-concentrated on healing her fingers for use again.

The last of her doubles did their best to protect them as they emerged, but Claw Brother’s fury would not be denied. The neonate pushed her aside and shot at him twice, but the warrior took the blows without comment. Cassandra pulled the sword out of her chest with a gasp and handed it to the neonate. “I can’t.”

Like this was planned, the neonate dropped the gun, and the clang of metal against metal vibrated through the hall. They pair dueled in moves Cassandra was too exhausted to follow. She fell to her knees, and her head swam from loss of blood. The gun—where was the gun?

The floor. Before her. She lugged it to her side and tried to recall vague shooting lessons from her wife Sancha in ‘20s. She possessed absolutely no talent and little inclination—wasn’t kissing so much better?

How had they gotten across the arena? Cassandra blinked and focused. They were on the opposite walkway, still fighting. “Motherfucker,” she muttered, as she pointed and squeezed the trigger.

Evidently the bullet found the correct, fleshy home, for an explosion of sparks and dust took Claw Brother’s place. The neonate breathed hard, and their eyes met across the gap.

Cassandra stood with as much dignity as she could in a ruined, blood-drenched dress. Dirt smudged her face, chest, and arms where she had landed on the floor. Her hand flexed—that was all better at least. The neonate continued to hold her gaze, and they slowly, deliberately raised their sword in her direction.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra said.

“We just found out that the Prince and your father are conspiring with the Kuei-jin. Aren’t you going to kill me, so I won’t tell anyone?”

Cassandra’s face crumpled. She felt like crying. “Darling, who has done this to you, that you think we would…that I would….” She sniffled. Fighting was the worst. “You deserve better.”

The neonate said nothing. They did not move an inch.

Cassandra breathed to regain composure. “I’m not going to kill you and neither will Nathan. We don’t kill children.” Even as she said those words, they rang hollow. They had killed so, so many. “Let’s go upstairs, hmm? Nathan will have finished with the Giovanni, and he can call a truck and help you carry the sarcophagus nice and safe to Ventrue Tower.”

The neonate lowered their sword. “I trust the lone wolf.”

They said those words like they were supposed to be cryptic. Cassandra gave a bitter laugh. “Good. And I hate guns. Could you please take this back?”

Admittedly, perhaps Nathan did not help her case when he greeted them with a gore-dripped grin and declared, “Guess who just learned Necromancy!”

#

In the alley outside of Haven, Beckett formed into his human shape and tried to shake off his low-burning frustration. Was any night in this damned city going to be successful? The only help Dr. Johansen had been was for entertainment—what the researcher lacked in notes, he had in good taste in translations of Turkish dialects and bikini swimwear. Cassandra would laugh gorgeously when she came home and found him in it. Hopefully her joy would sweep away any ill feeling not alleviated by dangling moronic hunters from a roof.

A movement above caught his attention—a bat was being harried by a collection of crows. Unusual. Beckett squinted. Wait a moment—

The bat squeaked and dove towards him. In a fluid fall from grace, the creature stretched and changed into Cassandra. She stumbled loose-limbed into his surprised arms, and the crows bombed his head.

Adrenaline surged through his system, and his warning growl and Bestial red glare transcended language.

“Only having fun!” the Corax chittered, and the flock flew away in haste.

Now the matter at hand. “Cassandra.” He shook her. When she didn’t respond, he moved.

Half-carrying, half-dragging the woman he’d called his wife, he pushed open the back door of Haven and shouted for Zelde. Red stickiness oozed onto his jacket and shirt, and he pushed the implication down. Down, down, down the stairs. Zelde appeared and took her other side. Without needing to voice his opinion, they carried her to her bedroom and its private bath.

“What happened?” Zelde asked, distress evident in her voice.

“That’s what I’d like to know. I thought she was going to be safe with Nathan.”

With greatest care, Zelde help him lay Cassandra in the claw-foot tub. “Do you think Nathan is still alive?”

“I honestly don’t give a damn,” Beckett said. He paused from unbuttoning the back of Cassandra’s ruined dress. “Apologies.”

Zelde laughed. “He’s frustrating, but you get used to his antics after awhile. Any threats he makes are boring to me. What’s he going to do—kill me? Been there. Inflict pain? Pain is banal and tedious. He can think of nothing worse than the images in my head from the War. I’m fine.” She worked off Cassandra’s monstrosity of heels.

As he peeled off her clothes, Beckett found a deep wound in Cassandra’s chest and couldn’t help but wince. “This goes all the way through. Her body might go into torpor to fix it.”

“I’ll go get blood,” Zelde said, picking up discarded clothes to no doubt throw into some fire. “Thank goodness we have a lot of it.”

With Zelde gone and Cassandra undressed, Beckett looked for other sites of injury—her left hand had the mottled appearance of the recently healed. Her arms, legs, and torso had little nicks and scraps—mostly likely from the meddling Corax. Her right ear had been shot through.

All fixable, with effort. Beckett shucked off his bag, gloves, shoes, glasses, and jacket. He put a towel under her head for comfort, rolled up his sleeves, and turned the brass facet on to begin washing her off.

Cold water was less comforting, but hot water would cause more problems. He had a washcloth. He was not to panic. Yes, it was disturbing to have a lover land on him and begin leaking. But there was no time to think on that, not when he had to scrub the blood scent off to let the violets come through. There was only the work, the cleaning of wounds; the calming of the Beast.

His calm was rewarded with a twitch of a finger, a sucking in of breath, and a flutter of dark eyes open. “Beckett…?”

“You’re safe,” he said. “You’re in Haven. Zelde is getting blood.”

The childe herself said, “Zelde has blood.”

Beckett moved so Zelde could pass Cassandra pack after pack of the stuff, and, just a pace above something that would drive him mad, the wounds closed one by one. The ear would require a long rest, but the tatters scarred over for now. The great chest wound was last to heal. The Beast’s anxiety nearly vibrated him out of his skin as he sat on the cold, light blue tile.

When the process was finally finished and Cassandra sat up, Zelde asked the winning question: “What happened?”

What followed next was a doozy of a story, and Beckett had been through more than his fair share of bizarre stories. The Nosferatu selling the sarcophagus to the Giovanni—a dangerous betrayal. Nathan massacring the Giovanni and cannibalizing their leader in a fit of pique—an ominous reminder of his supremacy, despite his relative vampiric youth. An alliance with a Kuei-jin who hated his guts—LaCroix was spelling his own doom. “Maybe he’s making love to Ming Xiao,” Cassandra commented, perhaps to lighten the mood.

Beckett barked out a bitter laugh. “That would not help in the least.”

“The allosexuals are at it again with their nonsense,” Zelde said, wry.

“I’m not going to argue that,” Cassandra said, and her voice sounded exhausted in his ears.

Beckett ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “The more time passes, the more I’m in agreement with Sergio that we should leave, but I don’t want to give these Gehenna fanatics the satisfaction.”

Zelde put her hands on her hips and teethed at her lips in thought. “It doesn’t feel like the end of the world, does it? It feels like a Tuesday. A dot on the i. A liminal space, but not more.”

“Unless you count the supernatural gloom in the air, then yes, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world,” Beckett said. “Which brings me back to unless Ennoia comes out of that priceless historical artifact to scold me herself, this isn’t Gehenna.”

Zelde nodded. “I mean, I have projects to finish. People are still coming into Haven to dance. The liquor stocks have to be ordered, and the trash has to be taken out. I have a phone bill! There hasn’t been any protests, and the humans are calm. Ish. Calm as they are under a Republican President. You’d think the vampire apocalypse would be more dramatic and affect more.”

“Perhaps we are thinking too big picture.” Cassandra hummed a long note. “This Gehenna is…smaller. It is the end of _someone’s_ world, but not our species’.”

“The most likely victim that springs to mind is the Camarilla and your father,” Beckett said, and the anxiety became too much. He reached over the porcelain lip of the tub and brushed his claws against her knee. “They are the most disorganized and invited disaster to their door.”

It wasn’t enough, and Cassandra noticed. “Beckett, can you leave me and Zelde for a moment? But don’t go far.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said as he rose, secretly thankful for the reprieve.

Outside of the bathroom, he could realize he needed to get rid of his shirt. He ripped it off, threw the garment in the laundry hamper, and snatched his nightshirt from its place on the bed. After he changed, he paced the room with his hands behind his back and tried to think his way out of the problem.

Sebastian would call upon him tomorrow night to begin his examination of the sarcophagus. He hadn’t heard from Scott, and Johansen had been kidnapped in some idiotic vendetta. Circumstances suggested that he needed to get this done fast, but without an expert and without research in advance, he would be going off any historical knowledge remaining in his brain. Which, granted, was a lot, but contrary to popular belief, he hadn’t crammed the entire length and breadth of human and Kindred history in his skull. Yet.

First thing next night, he would text Scott a reminder—a gentle reminder—that he would like any findings ASAP. According to the hunters, Johansen was only their “guest” because LaCroix had killed Bach’s grandsire or whatever. Somehow the Society of Leopold had figured out the Prince’s interest in the sarcophagus. Surely if Beckett mentioned to LaCroix that Johansen’s presence was necessary, the Prince would spare some expense to retrieve the fellow, if the Frenchman didn’t already intend to on principle. Beckett couldn’t deny that he felt a tug of sympathy for an innocent, queer academic caught up in a Kindred mess.

Another way to speed up research was an assistant, and he knew just the woman his Beast wanted near.

“You’ll wear out my carpet,” Cassandra said, soft.

Zelde had evidently made a discreet exit, for Cassandra stood alone before him. She had plucked her pink, fluffy cotton dressing gown out of the closet and put it on. On a usual night Beckett would tease her, but tonight he simply said, “Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you,” she replied. “It’s close to dawn—will you sleep here with me?”

Beckett scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” In two steps he was kissing her, swallowing the breath in her throat, relishing her choice to cling and wrap arms around his neck. “Desire to be anywhere else left me long ago.”


	6. Chinatown

Camera in hand, Cassandra was armed. As she snapped photo after photo of the sarcophagus, she calculated how long it would take Zelde to develop the final pieces, how much it would cost to mail them to their fellow Mnemosyne, and how fast the Memory-Seekers could share their deductions. Around the coffin, without a battle to distract, she could appreciate that the murmurs of the Malkavian Cobweb reached a higher volume, like others of her Clan were watching and studying through her eyes. Not a good sign. And it tickled.

“The more I observe, the more assured I am of Assyrian origin,” Beckett said in the same Ancient Greek used by Herodotus when he wrote his histories. The Gangrel had a tape measure and was jotting down the dimensions of the piece in his journal. “A rare time period to have such a large, in-tact artifact, and I’m out of practice on their mythology.”

Cassandra glanced up from where she was crouched for documenting the leaf-like flourishes on the tomb’s tail. In the same old language, she replied, “Since there are human figures, this tomb could depict a later mythology and not nature worship. Perhaps the woman is Ishtar.”

Rising from measuring the height of the lid, Beckett scowled and closed the tape measure with a snap. “Or one of several hundred of her faces. I’ll send a message to Scott again.”

“Come stand here, beloved, while you do that. Everyone knows the length of you, and we can use it as visual comparison.”

Beckett obliged by moving to stand next to the ornate sculpture. Cassandra took pictures from two different angles. Photographs wouldn’t record Beckett’s indignant mutterings while he attempted to work his phone, but his adorable grumpy face would be captured for posterity.

When she finished, she placed the camera’s long strap around her neck and snuggled up beside Beckett, looping one of her arms in his, resting her chin on his shoulder, and watching his large fingers work the tiny keypad. She took a deep, calming breath, inhaling the familiar cinnamon and book pages smell amongst all the tang of lemon cleaner and wood polish that pervaded the air of Ventrue Tower penthouse.

“Why do they make these stupid things so small?” Beckett groused, fumbling with his gray Nokia. Though his gloves were on at present, his black claws had scratched the casing in innumerable places in the past. “Did Okulos do this to me on purpose?”

“Not everything is a conspiracy, beloved. That’s the biggest there is, without losing functionality,” Cassandra laughed. She felt so safe next to Beckett. Too bad feelings weren’t enough.

The phone vibrated, and Beckett’s text disappeared. “Gods damn it, where did it go? What’s—oh, it’s a message from Scott. How did he answer me before I sent it? Did I already send it?”

Cassandra plucked the phone from his thick fingers to save her poor love from more trouble. She read the message out loud. “‘Sorry for the silence, B. I have left all research notes with Zelde at Haven. There was a Sabbat Shadow trying to summon—” Cassandra paused. There was no Greek word for this deity, so she used the English. “—eldritch shoggoth.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Beckett said. His head jerked, and his shoulders stiffened in surprise.

Cassandra read the rest fast, back in Greek: “Under the library. The fledgling you sent took care of him and we’re all fine now. Please tell them thank you for me. Ramona and Pete say hello and we’re working to seal off the summoning chamber. Talk to you later.”

Beckett grabbed the phone from Cassandra, but mid-dial another text came through. Cassandra peered over his shoulder. This was from Anatole.

“Sweetheart, where are you? Last morning I dreamed of you in a tower full of light. Wherever you are, you must go and come home to me. –A,” Beckett mumbled aloud.

Anatole might as well have dumped ice water on her. She froze where she stood, and her shock was mirrored in the narrow cat-slits of Beckett’s red eyes. His fangs were more noticeable as he asked, “What do you think—”

“How is your research coming along?” her father interrupted, as an abrupt and rude reminder to where they were.

Granted, they had been speaking in Greek to annoy her Dad, since no one else in the room knew the language. They had added insult to LaCroix when they asked the Sheriff in perfect French to gently lift the sarcophagus so Cassandra could document the markings on the bottom. The Sheriff had done so with great ease, and they had thanked him profusely and gone straight back to being unintelligible.

Cassandra unwound herself from Beckett and stepped to block her father’s view of him. A mask—she must be the mask. “Best and as quick as it can go,” she said in English. Perhaps they had tested the Camarilla’s patience enough. “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to say it’s good to see you helping the Camarilla again, after all this time. You’re doing adequate work,” Dad said, puffing himself up to his full, dour height.

Taken aback, her heart fluttered. Praise? From her father? Oh, her poor Dad, in these lonely nights, with everyone laughing at him—she must say something kind in return. She opened her mouth to do so when Dad continued, “We’ve been lucky to have many pillars of support these nights. You wouldn’t believe the accomplishments of the Prince’s new childe, thanks to the Camarilla’s structure, order, and law.”

Oh. Nope. Dad was being a bragging ass.

His speech turned into a gloating litany. “Despite their young age, the childe successfully orchestrated the downfall of an important Sabbat warehouse, retrieved some lost werewolf blood from kine hands, gathered the police findings on the sarcophagus, and ensured an enemy of the Prince’s received their just downfall. They risked their life against a Society of Leopold hunter to bring us news of the Malkavian Elders’ unfortunate demise. And that’s just what we asked.” An incredibly smug expression filled Enzo’s chubby Italian cheeks to the brim. “According to our sources, they took initiative to drive out the annoying Wraiths that have plagued our Ocean House Hotel for decades, kill the Southland Slasher, scare the Sabbat archbishop into hiding, eliminate all szlachta clogging up the sewers, and resolve some issue with a—gargoyle, I believe it was?”

“Really?” Cassandra said, cocking a hand on a hip and barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

“Oh yes, and you know, since they’ve come to Downtown, the strangest thing has happened. The Russian mob lost an important deal with the Chinese Tong, and soon after both bosses were found beheaded. I allowed our Italian family a special celebration.”

Cassandra examined her fingernails to hide any emotion besides boredom. She should care for her cuticles soon. “Fascinating.”

“It sounds to me,” Beckett said, clearing his throat to signal his joining to the conversation, “that this fledgling is doing your job for you, Enzo. I’m sure it’s out of the goodness of their heart too.”

Enzo huffed. “Well, you see—”

The grand penthouse doors opened, and the very fledgling themself walked in. Speak of the devil.

#

Cassandra dragged Beckett by the jacket collar to the marble hallway outside the LaCroix’s reception area. Nonetheless, his tone remained amused. “If you wanted some time to ourselves, there were less public ways to get me alone.”

“What were you thinking?” she hissed. “You can’t send a child to a monastery full of hunters!”

Anger flowed and flared like vitae within her, ready to be obeyed, ready to shape and form to her will. This intensity must be due more to the strain of these past nights than Beckett’s preposterous plan. Control. She must maintain control. The Cobweb whispered quieter away from that dratted coffin.

“My dear,” Beckett said, and his warm hand covered hers. “Normally I would be happy to agree with you most heartily, but were you listening to your father list their accomplishments? This is no ordinary fledgling.”

“It’s not that they lack skill!” she said. “It’s the fact that they’ve been sent on suicide mission after suicide mission all while LaCroix pats them on the head and smiles to their face. How will they not….” For the first time in a long while, she struggled for words. “How will they not hate us after this? Hate themselves? It is elders ordering children to shed blood for causes they don’t know the purpose of, or even the names.”

Beckett looked at her for a long moment. This close, she could observe the crimson-gold glow behind his dark sunglasses. Slow, he traced a hairy knuckle down her cheek, and she closed her eyes and wished to melt in the warm line the gesture left, to think of nothing else for a moon full of nights.

“You can’t fix everything,” Beckett said.

“I could go with them.”

“I need you beside me.”

She nipped the pad of his finger, and his resulting smile pressed against her mouth in a kiss. “Flatterer,” she murmured.

“Quite the contrary. The general archeological process goes faster when you’re assisting me. It is fact.”

“Is it now?” she said. She snaked beneath his chin to nibble at his neck and under his ear. Beckett gave a sharp inhale. As she pressed her fangs to his skin, his arms wrapped around her, pushing the camera out from between them so they could be cloth to cloth. “Is this part of the archeological process, Mr. Beckett?”

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Cassandra felt the strange urge to hide her face behind the curtain of his deep brown hair and never come out.

They held each other for long minutes, and Cassandra couldn’t tell if she or Beckett needed the comfort more. Of course it was Beckett who broke the silence: “You must remember that, despite their undead youth, they are an adult and responsible for their own decisions. They know their capabilities better than us. I told them to be careful.”

“Okay,” Cassandra said. The fight left her like a physical thing.

“That’s all? 'Okay.'”

“Okay. What will be, will be.”

“Can’t say I’m upset for winning, but I expected more—”

The shrieking sound of breaking glass interrupted. A rat-tat-tat of bullet hail sliced in her ears as Beckett pushed her to a corner and turned on his heel to face any threat teeth-first. Cassandra ripped any barrier between herself and others like duct tape from skin and wildly looked about for the attackers. None in the hallway; none in the stairwell—where?

Beckett pocketed his gloves, bent his knees, unsheathed his claws, and growled. “I don’t sense anyone.”

Cassandra looked down at her feet and saw a vast, writhing sea of purple. “Beckett, there are—there are _many_ Sabbat shovelheads coming towards us.”

“Let us pray that the Sheriff is more than appealing arm candy and re-join the others,” Beckett said, seeming calmer, but shoulders bunched and gait unnaturally smooth. Still ready to defend at a gauntlet’s throw. Her champion.

#

“The Sabbat’s goal is to stop Gehenna, which is very similar to my own, though they choose to do so through more violent, fanatic, and flamboyant methods. The Camarilla, on the other hand, suspends belief entirely…or so goes the party line.”

“Are you Anarch, then, like Nathan and Anna?”

“What I am, is Kindred. How others choose to categorize themselves concerns me only where local customs are concerned. Individualism is a path fraught with obstacles, and sometimes angry mobs, but for all its hardships, it is the only one worth taking.”

“But you said you’re married to Cassandra. Wouldn’t that mean you’re loyal to the Bonpensieros, to some degree?

Beckett laughed. “You’ve got it backward. Cassandra is loyal to me. What her family does—I won’t deny that we aide them. Sometimes more than I’d like. But ultimately, we follow neither Anarch, Camarilla, nor Sabbat doctrine. If anything were to happen to her—well, her killer would not live long.”

“So I take it she wasn’t killed in the Sabbat attack. Where’d she go?”

“I’m afraid she’s off to fetch some research material from our mutual friend. She mentioned something about packing as well, and it’s best not to dispute Malkavians in these matters.”

“I met with Dr. Johansen.”

“Excellent. What did Johansen have to say?”

#

Beckett showed his back to Sebastian and Enzo, who were discussing some Ventrue matter or other at the overlarge desk. Good. He could text in peace.

One could not always be sure with Dominate, but if there was ever an occasion for the Discipline, it would be convincing a young Kindred to wipe out an entire sect on their lonesome. This Sabbat pack reeked of chaotic desperation, and Beckett knew more than most that a cornered, bleeding wolf was far more dangerous. Cassandra’s earlier words echoed in his head—no Kindred deserved an elder forcing them into choices.

It took him longer than he’d care to admit, but eventually he coaxed his twice cursed pocket telephone to alert Matilda to the planned attack on Hallowbrook Hotel. Beckett had never officially met the former Vampire Slayer, but he had her number at her own insistence. Apparently his good luck among Malkavians extended to the more murder-happy ones.

His telephone beeped. Well. Quite the hunting party was to be assembled: the remaining Downtown Anarchs, Nick Knight and his childe Lupita, and a Nosferatu named Wally were eager to rid the city of Sabbat. The neonate was very popular, it seemed. A part of him was proud they had made so many friends.

Pocketing the telephone, he returned to examining the keyhole of the sarcophagus. Assuming the Sabbat didn’t possess (or, more likely, had possessed and destroyed) the key, who knew how long he would have to wait to open the sarcophagus properly. Perhaps it was rather impatient of him, wanting to get it open now, but the sarcophagus bothered him in a way other finds hadn’t in a long time. The tomb pinged his Gangrel senses like summer rain on a roof—soft yet ever-present; alluring yet sewn with potential lightening strike. He didn’t want to look away. He wanted to run.

People said he had a talent for getting into places he was not meant to, and if there were a way to, say, jimmy the lock…. Everything would go much faster. The world wouldn’t end, and he could leave.

He stuck his hand in. The hole was deep—almost to his elbow. His fingers traced the lines of the stone mechanism. His quest to interpret the digital input into a three-dimensional shape was interrupted by the door opening.

No one started yelling, so the visitor must be expected. “Eyy, it’s Beckett,” said a familiar masculine voice. “Whatcha doing there?”

“Good evening, Mercurio,” Beckett said, glancing at Sebastian’s retainer. Though it could be that he had his hand in a possible apocalyptic object, Beckett sensed something off with other man. His skin was—grey-ish? And his usual feathery hair clumped on his head. “How goes it?”

“Fine, fine. Just a—here for my juice.”

Beckett lifted his appendage out of the sarcophagus. He didn’t know Mercurio well—had only made use of his information broker services four or five times. But each time had been helpful, especially on the case of the cursed objects collector in Covina. With Mercurio’s directions, Beckett had found the cache squirreled away below the floorboards of a psychic’s shop. When he discovered _The Book of Vile Darkness_ was a tedious journey through Baali nonsense and possessed a demon to boot, Mercurio was the one who suggested dropping the blasted thing in the ocean.

Beckett squinted about—for some reason the Sheriff and Enzo had left. No doubt for some duty or other. He was content to return to his work until his gaze landed on Sebastian, who stared directly back.

Beckett broke their eye contact immediately. One did not stare at someone that way unless they wished to Dominate or Awe.

The Prince’s leather shoes made barely a squeak against the marble floor, but Mercurio’s full body jerk alerted Beckett to Sebastian’s nearness just as well. “May I help you, Sebastian?”

“I would like an update on your findings,” Sebastian demanded. Or, it would have been a demand, but his voice resounded gentle in the room. Majestic. He—why was the Prince using Presence on him?

“As I said before, I will tell you the moment I know anything of importance. Currently our topic of importance is I know nothing.”

Sebastian made a fond scoff, like he and Beckett were old friends. A soothing lullaby hum fringed on his consciousness, and Beckett snapped his mental walls down. Focus on Mercurio—the ghoul fiddled with his purple shirt buttons and shuffled closer to Sebastian.

“You were talking quite readily with Ms. Bonpensiero earlier. In fact, you went out in the hallway to further chat. Am I to believe the great Noddist was speaking of nothing of importance that whole time?”

“I assure you that Cassandra and I were speaking of rudimentary subjects. Nothing worthy of your, ah, great ears,” Beckett drawled. Mercurio. Focus on how this ghoul was very much acting like a wobbly fledging desperate for a first meal. Coming up behind Sebastian like a stalker. Drawn, sallow face. Fingers just twitching to grab and bite.

Sebastian seemed not to notice Mercurio’s advance or Beckett’s misdirected attention. “I think I may have a way to loosen your tongue. Your appetites may not be well-known in the broader Kindred community, but they are not impossible to find out, for someone such as me. I have prepared for you a tempting trade.”

Beckett was so startled that he made the mistake of looking at Sebastian. “My—my what?”

“Appetites,” Sebastian repeated, and Beckett noticed the Prince’s jacket was draped on his office chair, his tie had disappeared, and his shirt buttons were undone to reveal the full length of his tender throat; the fine, slim lines of his chest and stomach.

“In exchange for whatever information you have, I offer myself and,” Sebastian stepped backward to better gesture at Mercurio, “my servant, since you are so very fond of kine.”

It was a good thing he wasn’t holding anything because he would have dropped it. As it was, Beckett could only splutter.

Mercurio was equally distressed. “What? Master, I just came for my fix. That’s all. I didn’t know nothing about this.”

The blond madman with the face of an angel talked over them both. “I have specially starved him so he would be more invigorating for us. Makes them more wild during the act, and more complacent once satisfied.”

Flabbergasted surprised changed to anger so fast his head spun. “You haven’t fed him?”

“No. My servant has to earn his blood every month. Can you imagine if I gave it out for free?”

All Beckett could imagine was Sergio in Mercurio’s place. Sergio, starved like that. Made ashen and hungry and helpless. Subject to another person’s whims and eroded into a sniveling, desperate thing. Beckett didn’t know Mercurio well, but he knew enough that the man didn’t deserve to be tortured.

“Put your clothes back on, you pathetic fool,” Beckett snarled.

Beckett didn’t care that the Prince of LA covered astonishment with hissing anger. Quick as he could, Beckett collected his diary, pens, and camera and jammed them all into his bag. In a fleetness just below Celerity, he sped to Mercurio’s side and seized the man’s hand, lacing their fingers. “Come with me if you want blood.”

“I—” Mercurio looked between his fuming, pale master and Beckett in hopeless confusion.

Beckett barked out an order. “Tell him to come with me or any sort of deal is off and I will leave the city right now.”

“Go with him, ghoul,” Sebastian spit as he buttoned up his shirt.

Beckett had to remember to keep a human pace. Mercurio stumbled after him. The elevator ride was in complete silence except for the dull bestial roar in Beckett’s ears, the baying for blood and vengeance.

The debris of the attack littered the streets around Ventrue Tower, and holding Mercurio’s hand still, Beckett sped-walked by the flaming chunks with no preamble or care.

“Where’re you takin’ me?” Mercurio asked.

“Home,” Beckett said, not trusting himself with much more command of the English language. Usually he would fly or run to whatever destination lay ahead, but with a human companion, other transportation needed to be provided.

“Haven?”

“ _Your_ home.”

“Oh, then we can get a cab at the corner here.”

Returning to himself slightly, Beckett turned as Mercurio directed. And came face to face with a mob of Brujah.

“Whoa now, that’s a sight,” Mercurio said, his eyes wide.

The Sabbat battle crew circled a lone Kuei-jin like sharks. Very wounded sharks. Skelter’s lip bled, Damsel’s brass knuckles failed to hide bruises, and Anna’s clothes barely counted as such, with how torn to shreds they were. Smiling Jack was spattered in gore not his own, and a Nosferatu who resembled a walrus had holes in his shirt the same size as shotgun blasts. Even Nick Knight, a Brujah Beckett had first met in the Sun King’s Court in France, appeared stressed, with a certain yellow gleam to his eyes and disjointment to his shoulder. His childe Lupita supported him, and she was covered head to foot in soot, like she’d been obliged to claw her way through a chimney. Matilda must have already made her exit.

Within their group stood a beautiful Chinese woman in a green gown, who, despite her situation, appeared distinctly unimpressed. “Good evening, Kindred.”

Yanking off his gloves, Beckett pushed Mercurio behind him and planted himself like a tree on the sidewalk. He would protect. He would witness. This was going to be a bloodbath. Even the kine could sense it—a passing cab caddy corner to the gather paused its drive before speeding quickly away.

“Give us one good reason not to tear you apart right now!” Damsel shrieked, obviously well past her limit. Both she and Skelter flashed their fangs.

“What about your precious Masquerade?” the woman—who could only be Ming Xiao—said. “I thought you Cainites would have more sense than to promote open warfare in the street.”

“You think we care about Masquerade when the head of our enemies is right here, in our territory, and we’ve got her out-numbered seven to one?” Anna said, voice caustic enough to burn concrete. “Fuck that.”

The muscles in Beckett’s legs coiled and readied to block. He called on his blood to be ready, to thin and thicken against his skin, to make him as hard as stone, as hard as diamond.

“All right, play time’s over, kiddos. She’s got a point.”

Beckett was among those who visibly started. Smiling Jack, shaking meat and bone out of his hair, moved to stand beside Ming Xiao. If the Baron of Chinatown was surprised, she did not show it, but she did shift to keep a certain distance between herself and Jack.

The childe of Tyler, the notorious rebel and premiere Anarch intellectual, said, “The Sabbat are dead. That’s enough bloodshed for one night.”

“What the fuck, Jack?” Damsel shouted.

Beckett couldn’t help but agree. This declaration shook him to the core. Smiling Jack halting a fight? Something was very, very wrong in Los Angeles.


	7. A Tower Full of Light

Mercurio’s apartment in Santa Monica was the same top class establishment Beckett remembered. The paisley carpet was opulent, the faux Roman art pieces respectable, the sofa blue-dyed Italian leather, and the cherry wood furnishings polished to gleaming. Someone must have mopped recently, as the stone floor shone and the faint smell of detergent lingered in the air.

Removing his jacket and placing it on the sofa back, Beckett asked, “Now that we’ve put distance between ourselves and the political nonsense, do you have preferences regarding how you receive blood? If we allow it to sit—mmf.”

Mercurio’s hot lips seared against his own, and trembling hands framed his face. The rapid pulse of tobacco, bergamot, and juniper from his wrists captured the Beast’s attention, but Beckett placed a hand on Mercurio’s burning chest and pushed.

Mercurio floundered backwards. “You playing games?” he asked. His hazel eyes were wide and wouldn’t rest, darting all over Beckett. “Boss said I gotta make you feel good to earn my keep. He’s never asked me to do this before, but I’m—I’m in a bad way. Been about forty days.”

“ _Forty_?” Beckett replied, and he couldn’t hide his aghast surprise. His gloves were already in his pocket, so he started unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. “The cravings must be maddening.”

“Had worse,” Mercurio said, but he was eyeing Beckett’s exposed wrists with greed. His arms were rigid at his side, and his hands flexed open and close.

Beckett hissed and had to keep several colorful phrases to himself. “Then do as I require: allow me to be your donor. Letting Sebastian do this to you is intolerable. Tell me how you like your vitae. In a cup? Warm? If you do not drink directly from the vein and wait a few minutes, you will feel no bond.”

“What are you—fuck it.” Mercurio pounced on Beckett, and Beckett didn’t make any motion to stop him. The ghoul pummeled him with ineffective fists, and Beckett felt the dull scrap of human teeth against his neck.

His actions were firm and direct. Beckett folded himself around the struggling, half-crazed man and guided them both to the sofa. His limbs hardened to a cage, trapping Mercurio against him as they lay down.

Mercurio flailed, his lungs heaving with effort against Beckett’s arms. Beckett maintained the hard strength, pressing Mercurio’s shoulder against his chest. “Easy, easy, it’s not your fault.”

“I gotta earn my blood. Any of you types’ blood,” Mercurio cried, and big blubbering tears trailed down Beckett’s shirt.

“Perhaps it will grant you some perspective,” Beckett muttered. It seemed there was no time for niceties, and the vicious Beast part of him wanted to tear Mercurio and Sesbastian apart like a seam ripper did a bad stitch.

Consequences be damned, Beckett bit into his own wrist, directed the blood to well and flow there with strong current, and presented the juicy flesh to Mercurio, who latched onto the wound with abandon. The soft sucking and Beckett’s murmurs of encouragement were the only sounds in the apartment for ten minutes or more. Mercurio cradled Beckett’s wrist like it was made of gold and glass.

For his part, Beckett used his unoccupied limb to stroke Mercurio’s hair, which was the source of bergamot and juniper. Already degrees warmer, the ghoul gained still more heat, or perhaps Beckett grew colder. Color returned to Mercurio’s skin and the normal human aura of soft fullness emanated. The heartbeat slowed, and the breath lengthened to calm waves. Beckett hadn’t realized how dried out Mercurio had been until he witnessed the shocking difference between then and now.

Somehow, this act signaled to him the end of the Camarilla in Los Angeles more than anything else. Some vague half-remembrance from an essay floated in his brain: a civilization was to be judged by how the least of its members were treated. The Camarilla Prince, the supposed throbbing power center of its organization, could not care for his lowliest servant. This neglect did not have purpose—it was cruelty born of incompetence. Sebastian’s insistence that Mercurio’s suffering increased pleasure was bullshit. Beckett’s Beast wanted to beat Sebastian into torpor, and, in the unlikely event he was in the Prince’s presence again, the temptation would take a herculean effort to resist.

Anger warred within his arteries, within the gentleness of his actions as he pressed a light kiss to the top of Mercurio’s head. “That’s it. Good boy.”

With a whimper, Mercurio licked and licked Beckett’s wrist. When Beckett judged a pint had been donated, Mercurio stopped and slumped with sated relief. Beckett sealed the bite wound without fuss.

Though their business was finished, Mercurio didn’t seem inclined to move. In fact, he shifted for greater comfort between Beckett’s legs, and Beckett felt the shape of his ear against through the fabric of the shirt. Mercurio’s voice was a little hoarse as he asked, “Never taken in so much at once. Were you gonna let me drink you dry? You’d do that? You don’t know me from Adam.”

“If you needed more than I could give, I would have found you another donor,” Beckett said, wiping any tears he could reach. He resumed petting Mercurio’s hair, now with a restored luster to its mix of subtle red, light brown, and deep blond. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the broader blood servant community, but your arrangement with Sebastian is not usual. The idea of you having to earn your monthly blood is barbaric.”

“Thought you were going to kill me,” Mercurio sighed, like he had no stake in the matter. “With the way you looked when the big man told you.”

“You understand blood bonds, I take it?” Beckett said. Mercurio nodded in the affirmative, so Beckett continued, “I will be neither disappointed nor pleased if you do or do not, but this may be an opportunity to re-think your loyalties.”

Mercurio stiffened, but relaxed again under Beckett’s soothing ministrations. Good. Hopefully this was a sign his careful wording hadn’t activated any obligation. Mercurio said, “You want me to come to your side? You’re not Camarilla, but I take care of those who take care of me.”

“I don’t have a side in all this mess,” Beckett said. “I’m going to leave you with Zelde’s telephone number.”

“The lady who runs the Haven club?”

“Yes. She’s a Malkavian. Cassandra’s childe.”

“You want me to do business with her?”

“Not as such. Since you are not bound to Sebastian and I have little claim in Los Angeles and its troubles, your mind is clear for the first time in however long to make decisions for yourself. If you’re not aware already, the Ivory Tower is falling. You needn’t be crushed under its weight. Call Zelde anytime and she will help you.”

Mercurio didn’t answer this.

Might as well plant the full idea in his head. “You are knowledgeable, well-connected, and resourceful. Play your cards right, and Zelde might take you on. She needs hands on the outside, where she struggles to go. Though I will warn you—being bound to a Malkavian is quite the different experience. Cassandra’s bloodline in particular has proven to demand a rather steep price on its members.”

“Can’t be harsher than Voerman,” Mercurio said. Beckett sensed a story there, but what came out Mercurio’s mouth next was more unexpected: “You know the kid? I had to get ‘em astrolite to blow up the Sabbat warehouse, but that’s not the first shipment of explosives that’s been run through Santa Monica.”

Confusion buzzed. “Relevance…?”

“Thought you ought to know.” He steadied himself on Beckett’s chest and kissed with an unexpected pureness and intensity. “You’ll tell the big guy that I showed you a good time, right? None of this blubbering crap.”

“Of course,” Beckett said. “Don’t worry.”

#

On the way home, Beckett spotted the neonate, and all the dire feelings surged within him. Mercurio’s cryptic fact, Smiling Jack’s sudden sue for peace, Anatole’s text, Cassandra’s assurance that this was an end, the Malkavian Elders’ deaths, the suffocating warning in the air, the supernatural sects of the city in uproar—all blamed on the Ankaran sarcophagus. No matter of the truth of that object, it spelled doom.

The young one deserved a choice.

#

Cassandra placed the phone in its cradle. That was the last of them.

Since Zelde had become Haven’s manager, she had organized the work office most methodically, and it was a physically easy task to inform all the workers that they were to be given a year’s salary and kept on the books so their benefits were not cut. But it was time-consuming and exhausting. For the first time since being rebuilt in the ‘30s, Haven would close its doors, but at this point there was no other option.

The voices of the Cobweb roared like a waterfall. She couldn’t remember a time the flow of advice, exclamations, and cries had been this distracting, this consuming, this insistent that she leave. As soon as she’d stepped out of Ventrue Tower, the torrent had begun, and she knew in her heart of hearts she’d never set foot in that place again. Zelde had tackled her when she’d darkened Haven’s doorstep. Sergio was awake because it was impossible to sleep. She’d called Nathan, and he was stopping his sire’s resurrection in favor of sheltering in Gatlin.

It wasn’t a bad idea, so she stole it. And that meant shutting down Haven for the foreseeable future. It meant packing her travel bag and rough-spun adventuress clothes. Her father did not believe her and refused. But Anna was already preparing her town for an influx of fleeing Bonpensieros, Anarchs, and others who listened to Malkav’s childer.

As soon as Beckett returned, they would run.

#

From the highest hillock in Gatlin, protected by the shade of a look-out tower, one could see the downtown area of Los Angeles. As the night leaked out of the sky and the first rim of the sun rose over the mountains, the Bonpensiero children, Zelde, Sergio, and Beckett watched the top of Ventrue Tower burst into an inferno.

At first, no one moved. But then Cassandra broke the line and raced in the direction of the blast, wailing in one pure, heartbroken note.

Beckett was the oldest, so he reached her first. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, while they both started to catch fire. “I can’t.”

Haloed by smoke, Beckett carried her back to shadow, back to night, and deep into torpor’s rest.


	8. Epilogue

Sergio watched the foreign car motor up the long, dusty drive to the main Gatlin house. They kept to the porch’s shade, leaning against the door with their arms crossed, for the sun shone hot and the Santa Ana winds blew the dry air around, cooling nothing.

They fingered the pistol in their hand, but there was no need to respond to the stranger—not yet. The black car—a fancy one, though Sergio had not bothered with specific car names in decades—parked, and Sergio breathed relief. It was Mercurio.

“You Sergio, right? Got a surprise for ya,” Mercurio said, getting out of the car and beckoning Sergio to the trunk.

“How do you know where this house is?” Sergio asked, unsticking themself from the door in one languid movement. Keep the gun on hand, just in case.

“You think these Crone folks get all their guns themselves? Some of my best customers,” Mecurio said.

In all their travels and paths in life, Sergio had met many like Mercurio—good at acquiring things and knowing people. The fact Mercurio was tough and good-looking didn’t hurt either. “You can’t show me from there?”

“Not unless you want this guy to burn up.”

 _That_ got Sergio moving and, even though they were warned, it was still a shock to see Enzo passed out in the trunk. True, he _looked_ deceased, with his blond, wavy hair the most vibrant feature when all else was waxy skin, shriveled joints, and sunken eyes, but that was normal for a sleeping vampire during the day.

Mercurio carefully put the sun-proof blanket back on Enzo, before the old man started to truly smoke. “I broke him out of the morgue, and a friend a’ mine wiped any speck of him in the database,” he explained. “Lucky bastard was on a lower floor when the boss blew up.”

“We can bring him in with the others.” Sergio adjusted their glasses and wiped sweat off their nose. “The ‘boss’ as you call him—he was your regnant, no? What are you going to do? You have a plan?”

“Beckett said one of you’s might need a helpful guy like me?” Mercurio gave a weak smile. “Goes by Zelde?”

“Ah,” Sergio nodded. “Clever boy. Yes, just don’t try to kiss her, and she will ask for more strange bits and bobs then a gun. Have you heard about microchips? They are very small and do very much.”

Together, the two ghouls carried Enzo—safely burritoed in his blanket—down into the basement, where the other Kindred snoozed. It had been exhausting to move them all from the look-out tower, but they could not stay in that place when the four o’clock sun hit. The other Gatlin ghouls had helped, and the Kindred had woken enough to shift and increase their comfort on the places Sergio dropped them.

They placed Enzo next to Nathan. Sergio put their hands on their hips and surveyed the scene. It had taken a major incident of domestic terrorism, but the Bonpensieros were united at last. On pallets in the basement of Gatlin’s house, Enzo slept next to his grandson, and Anna curled in a ball beside her cousin. Archie lay completely at ease, and one of Cassandra’s fingers curled under her brother’s blanket. Tangled as they were, there was no returning. They sheltered under the Anarch banner and would be Anarch to the bone.

Except.

Except Beckett was wrapped around Cassandra, unwilling to let her go. Zelde, always a light sleeper, dozed on his other side. Cassandra had other responsibilities, loves, and adventures to embark upon, and Sergio thanked God for it.

“What’s ah—what’s Beckett going to do after this?” Mercurio asked, dusting off his trousers, trying painfully hard to look nonchalant.

Sergio raised a brow. “Cassandra begged him to go after the fledgling, try to see if they’re alive. He agreed without much fight.”

“The kid?”

“The same. Apparently, Cassandra and Beckett have formed an attachment. You knew the young one, no?”

“Yeah—they ah. Something about them sparkled, ya know? They were different. They helped me out. I can count on one hand the Kindred who have done that for me before.”

“I did not have the chance to meet them. It almost sounds supernatural, how dearly everyone wished to talk with them. I want to talk to them because of this.” Sergio nudged Beckett’s shoe with their foot. Mercurio’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Sergio continued, “If the fledgling is dead, or wants no help, Beckett will go to France and then perhaps to Egypt or Turkey for a dig, depending on his mood and the climate. Cassandra has not decided. She may stay here, to help the family settle for a while.”

Mercurio seemed to be taking a moment to absorb this information, and Sergio knew calculation purred behind those eyes. Too coolly, he asked, “All good here?”

“Are you thirsty?” Sergio asked, turning and leading the way back upstairs. “They don’t have much out here in the scrubland, but their sangria is good, and I spotted a pitcher in the fridge.”

Mercurio groaned. “Alcohol would be great about now, thanks.”

“We drink it on the porch. It is so good to see the sun, no?”


End file.
